


tumblr drabbles

by bloodgutsandstarbucks



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tags Within Chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22936726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodgutsandstarbucks/pseuds/bloodgutsandstarbucks
Summary: Standalone tumblr drabbles/stories in one collection from @darker-soft-starker.All chapters will be tagged accordingly.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 38
Kudos: 131





	1. Good Marriage AU

**Good Marriage AU**

**Warnings: dark Tony, non-graphic mentions violence, non graphic mentions of child abuse.**

  
\---

It’s been said that home is where the heart is. 

Whatever it meant, Peter had always found that the old adage difficult to reconcile with - after all, _home_ was six years old, belt welts and whiskey breath. It was holes in his sneakers, cupboards that echoed and the purple and red on the side of his mother’s mouth. Home was something you carried with you to the principal’s office, the hot end of the cigarette and being firmly told that his red-raised knuckles are not pillars to rest on.

What was home if you didn’t choose it - if you were always trying to run away from it?

That’s what he’d always thought anyway - and that’s what he did. Threadbare hoodie, battered backpack and clutching the fifty he’d stolen, Peter ran. He fled into the warm embrace of his Aunt May who mended his patchwork heart with Sinatra on Sunday mornings and hot chocolate, Luke Skywalker nights. 

Love for May was the sound of New York traffic and the smell of nicotine drifting from her bedroom window, overcooked spaghetti and the tickle of her hair on his skin. She wasn’t perfect but she made him feel like he had a place, a room with no conditions.

When she died a few years after, Peter ran again. He made a map of heart-lines all across the state trying to find himself in all of the people he came across. From the lonely girl with the curly hair who offered him a kind smile as he shivered around a steaming cup of coffee, to the boy with the brilliant brain and piercing blue eyes who made made grainy, chalk-masterpieces on worn footpaths. 

He never knew most of them but their faces were like picture frames, their conversations his home movies. 

The price of living in a place he was supposed to call home in New York never got cheaper and so he worked. He was working for eight dollars an hour and twenty percent off stock when Peter had first met Tony.

Tony Stark, he’d introduced himself. An older man, dark suit, salt-and-pepper temples, skin that crinkled in all the right places. Old school charm and eyes that were gentle. Peter didn't fall so much as he tripped right into him, happy to be ensnared. 

It was easy to find a home in Tony. 

The way his arms wrapped around Peter felt more like four walls than anywhere he’d found a roof overhead and so they dated. They dated and fought and fucked, dug themselves into each others skin. The furrow was so deep they had got married six months after their first kiss, neither of them had family except each other now - Peter didn’t look backwards from where he had ran from. 

It was hard to want to when he walked home after a long day, trudging himself up to their single-room apartment with the leaking roof and the floorboards that squeaked in protest when you stepped over them, the tap that never stopped dripping - and Tony, the centre of it all.

Tony was there to massage his aching shoulders after an arduous day, to kiss his forehead, his cheek, his lips, to enter through the doorway into his body and whisper sweet-nothings into his ear like wind whistling against the windows. Tony was all finger-tracing, wit and he called Peter _husband_ so fondlylike it was a gift. It was easy to love him.

Eventually they started their own business together, moving out of the one-bedroom into something more quaint on the outskirts of town by the oak trees. A cottage he cared for because Tony was in it - an extension of them, but just a thing. 

They tasted success as business bloomed, dealing and appraising rare-coins, combining both of their loves into a venture that made Peter feel like he was someone, like an explorer, like he was bringing together his half to their whole. 

But success meant Tony was out of town sometimes for their clients. 

It left them both somewhat vacant whenever he had to go, never more than a day or two, Tony stealing remorseful kisses in the lowlight of dawn as he leaves, taking the light with him. 

For Peter there was not one place called home when home was a person - because when that person is not there it is just a house. A property. Just four walls whose roof isn’t as comforting as his husbands body wrapped around him, inside him. A house didn’t have a heartbeat he could feel thumping under his hand or look at Peter with an adoring smile, soft eyes that crinkled around the edges. A house didn’t breathlessly tell Peter they loved him, didn’t hold him when he wept through the afterimages of his nightmares, didn’t make him feel like he was a cathedral, worth more than weathered sneakers and the pink stitches of skin on his back.

Years passed, settling into their new community like the way that the smell of tobacco latches onto fabric in that weary _what can you do about it_ kind of way. Peter didn’t mind so much feeling like an outlier, he had Tony and their work and passion for both that kept him warm. 

He stayed in the shell they called residence when Tony was out on business and when he came back Tony made him remember that he was a temple. Tony’s tongue licked and laved and moved inside him, all reverence and repentance. Peter was only too eager to forgive for just one more loving kiss.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t immediately turn around and leave everything behind when he stumbled in their dusty garage, used only when either of them pretended to care about gardening. Maybe that’s why he didn’t pack up and run again when he found the dog tags and the ID card in a hidden compartment in the metal shelving. 

Michelle Jones.

Steven Grant Rogers.

The names sounded like his heart jarring, like a baseball breaking through a window - he didn’t know what else to do except gingerly place the items back in the box and wander back into the house in a confused daze, because _why_ , dust motes and orange sun rays in his eyes. Despite swearing never to drink the whiskey Tony keeps in stock Peter finds himself reaching for it. It always burns. 

He’d always drank it sticky and smoky from Tony’s lips anyway.

The wind rattles against the windows and he remembered he needed batteries for the storm, the torches laying uselessly on the coffee table when the lights begin to flicker. But he still has signal on his phone and the light of his laptop to guide his hand to the bottle and the keys as he spells out their names into the search bar and what comes back up is _deceased_ and _mystery_ and suddenly the whiskey doesn’t taste too bad anymore.

The lonely girl with the curly hair. 

The brilliant boy with blue eyes.

The whiskey emboldens him to keep typing furiously, misspelling often as his vision blurs and his throat burns. 

Peter can trace a disappearance to every single one of Tony’s business trips, the dates, the locations. It all aligns right before him, like pages that had been missing all along. 

The victims, at least five of them, are murdered with the same signature method: blunt force trauma followed by the post-mortem removal of the victims heart.

The cavity left in the deceased’s chest is always filled with pennies.

He doesn’t even realise he’s called Tony until the man answers, tinny and concerned on the other end of the call. Dwindling percentage blinks back at him, a shaky thumb pressing the call to speaker.

“…Baby? You there?”

“I’m here,” Peter swallows. “Just wanted to call you. Miss you.”

He hears Tony’s soft sigh as clear as the whistling wind. “Miss you too, baby. I’ll be home soon, promise.” 

He sniffs. “When’s soon?”

“Soon,” Tony laughs, low and familiar. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, feeling syrupy, eyes glazing over. “Just wanted to hear your voice. There’s a storm.”

Peter doesn’t like loud noises. Doesn’t like metal clanging, glass shattering, doesn’t like how thunder sounds like belt buckles and upturned chairs hitting floors and fists on walls and how it reminds him that houses can only protect him from the elements. Sometimes when it storms Tony will curl up behind him in bed, and place his hands over Peter’s ears and press kisses to neck, other times he will stand with Peter in the shower until the water runs cold, their rapture echoing off the tiles. 

There’s a pause. 

“You sure you’re okay? Why don’t you turn some music on and get under the covers, sweetheart.”

“Good idea,” Peter lies. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Okay, I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

The thing with finding a home in a person is that sometimes there are parts to uncover and things you only notice when you stare long enough - secret rooms, hidden compartments and it’s just after that you notice the one floorboard that has begun to rot and ceilings that have cracks or the way the door hinges doesn’t work just right. Maybe he doesn’t work just right, either.

You can either pack-up and leave, or content yourself with the window that sticks and the dust-motes and say there aint no place like it.

“Love you too,” Peter whispers, shaking to his core as thunder rolls overhead.

——-

Tony comes home early.

His husbands eyes are dark when he finds Peter curled up in their bed later, late enough for the pale grey of early morning to filter through the glass. One of Tony’s business shirts is draped over Peter’s shoulders, curtain to everything outside of their bed as he rouses. 

“You left your laptop open. You been doin’ some research, baby?” Tony croaks, jaw set, mouth turned downwards. 

Peter doesn’t like that so he beckons, arms like open doorways when he reaches for his husband and takes him by the hand, wedding rings clicking togethers like locks latching. In Tony’s other hand is the ID and the dog-tags dangling by his side. He’s over being mad about being kept in the dark, long away off the initial burn of anger, too relieved that the vacancy is full again to mourn.

It feels like home when Tony kneels onto the bed and presses a kiss to Peter’s forehead, like their bed is a pulpit, the heat of Tony’s body as he nuzzles into his side a sermon. 

Peter turns his head to capture his lips, wondering how long Tony has been praying to him.

“Some” he admits. “I might need to pick your brain later. How did the trip go?”

Tony stills for a moment before the bristles of his beard scrape Peter’s cheek, a smile.

“Good. I found us a 1955 double die cent.”

“How much did the owner want for it?” Peter asks, raising their joined hands to kiss Tony’s red-raised knuckles, all copper and nickel.

The shirt falls loosely around his waist when he shrugs it off just to see how Tony’s eyes become a cavern, the slack of his jaw an invitation that Peter has always wanted to run into and curl up in. Maybe he should be running from the dark inside it, the unexplored territory, but he doesn’t. It just feels like a heartbeat, steadfast as a metronome, home.

“Just a few pennies,” Tony answers, eyes falling to Peter’s heart.


	2. An Arrangement

**Prompt: Starker sugar daddy au where, at first, it's only an arrangement to make it seem Tony is off the market.**

**Warnings: fake/pretend relationship, misunderstandings, fluff.  
  
**

\---

  
Peter couldn’t believe his eyes when he’d received the offer. 

At first he’d thought the very official looking Stark Industries email had been an expertly crafted fake, like those ones he sometimes gets from Paypal or whatever. It seemed too good to be true, but he’d traced it with Neds help and _holy shit -_ it was an actual, verified email from a person at Stark Industries.

It was kind of ballsy of them, actually, answering his ad and asking for a personal meeting from their business email. What a move, clearly this person doesn’t care if their boss knows they’re looking to buy someones services. 

But whoever hhogan@starkindustries.com was, Peter was not about to turn down down the potential of _a very generous offer_ , as it had been phrased. They were working at Stark Industries, they had to be making some kind of coin, right? Peter was just a poor guy, doing his best. 

When Peter had first put the ad up for a sugar daddy he’d been drunk and to be fair, MJ had dared him. And when he was drunk-dared by a goading MJ he can’t be blamed for his actions. So he posted it, telling the world that a sad twink needed a benefactor. He didn’t phrase it that way online, but that was essentially the vibe. 

Peter didn’t think anything of it, mostly got a couple of creeps messaging him about his profile pic, telling him how nice his mouth was and how they’d like to stuff their cocks in it. Honestly, he’d kind of forgotten all about it after the comments died down a couple of weeks later. Until he’d received this email, that is. 

They’d made a time and a place to meet, some expensive looking restaurant in the Upper East Side, which, yikes, Peter only brave enough to order water in case the guy doesn’t want to go into an arrangement after all. He gets there and is directed to a private booth in the back, expecting to see some balding, overweight dude, lonely and looking for a bit of touch.

He doesn’t expect _Tony fucking Stark_ himself sitting at the table, distractedly playing with his phone. Peter is so struck with confusion that when Tony looks up at him he loses higher brain function and stops moving, mouth falling open.

The man looks him up and down and cocks an eyebrow up, a smile lighting his face up. 

Peter had already prepared some things to say but what had come out of his mouth instead was:

“Mr. H. Hogan?”

Mortified, Peter had shaken himself and immediately tried to backtrack. “Wait! Wait, sorry, I _know_ you - I mean, not, like personally or anything, obviously - I know you’re Tony Stark, _everyone_ knows you’re Tony Stark. Who are - wait, am I in the right place?”

Tony had looked a little taken aback by his word vomit but eventually tells him yes, Peter is in the right place and that Hogan is his employee and the H stands for Happy. 

When Peter warily sits Tony explains to him over lunch and wine that he’s looking to hire someone that everyone will believe is his lover. He’s had a string of one-night stands and a handful of serious relationships, the last one ending in heartache. Then… there was everyone else. After Tonys’ last serious relationship had ended publicly it was apparently a licence for the shameless to assume his dick was hungry and up for grabs. 

_It wasn’t_ , he said. He needed a cover. 

Tony frankly had had enough. There was no other reason, it was that simple. That’s what he’d told Peter anyway. He needed a buffer between the world and the people pawing at him.

With a flourish of his wrist Tony had provided a contract. Peter had read it over and it was simple: be where Tony wanted him to be, when he needed him to be, and dressed the part - and be _exclusive -_ and Peter would be provided with a monthly compensation - along with bonuses.

With his rent six weeks behind Peter could barely refuse, eyes bulging at the figure. A monthly allowance of $5000, a driver service, all the bells and whistles. He’d signed the damn thing before he could even consider the consequences.

And at first, there were none. Tony took him to events, dressing Peter up in fine, expensive suits and parading him around on his arm. Peter got to drink pricey champagne and rub shoulders with the elite who cooed over their budding “relationship”. Tony took him out to dinner, out to shows, to the baseball, to functions. It was fun meeting new people and nice being spoiled for once.

However uncomfortable it made him to be in the public eye, the paparazzi got pictures of Peter and Tony looking utterly wrapped up in each other - holding hands, sharing kisses, looking adequately in love - and Peter got paid enough to start making a dent in his student loans. 

He kinda hadn’t expected Tony to be all that… _likeable_ to be honest, when he’d signed the contract. He’d heard of the mans arrogance, of his snarky attitude. Going off their first meeting he’d thought they guy would be, like, tolerable at the very least, even if Peter had always admired his work from an outside perspective.

Turns out Peter was wrong. Like, really wrong. 

Because it turns out that Tony is… kind of amazing. The guy is smart and charming and a genuine fucking nerd. He’s generous (nearly to a fault) and tries to hide it. Don’t get Peter wrong, Tony is also a little asshole who drinks too much and works even more - but he’s such a _good guy_. He always makes sure Peter is comfortable with whatever they do, even if it’s holding hands, he tips waiters handsomely and lets Peter tinker around in his personal lab. He gives to charity, makes sure his employees get leave and bonuses and pays them deservingly, he’s progressive and treats Peter like a human being.

It’s not like Peter is in love with him or anything. He’s just super fond of the guy.

MJ rails him for it ad nauseum, telling him he’s getting too close, that he should remember he is an _employee_ who, as stated in the contract, can be terminated at any time. 

Peter does remember, and if nothing else, it makes him value what time he does have with Tony. Makes him take his studies more seriously, never knowing when his funds are going to dry up. For an ad he placed while super drunk, it’s kind of the best thing that’s ever happened to him. 

He’s fond of the guy, so what? It’s fine.

One day he and Tony are out for lunch at some rooftop diner. Tony is talking about working on one of his latest inventions, some kind of medical tech. He seems really passionate about it, talking about it at length with such fervent enthusiasm and Peter sits there, captivated, nodding and listening, the food between them forgotten. He thinks he’s just being attentive and the topic is interesting.

But then a ray of sunlight hits Tony’s eyes in a way that make them look like whiskey and Peter’s stomach does a weird swoop and his heart tingles. 

_Oh shit_ , he thinks.

Oh shit indeed.

It’s fine, Peter says to himself, multiple times a day. He’s had infatuations before - most never reciprocated - so, what’s the big deal? He’ll just ignore this one too.

Except… it’s _hard_. It’s hard to tell yourself not to feel romantically about a person when you get to kiss them and hug them and be by their side. Even if it’s only because he’s getting paid for it. 

But it was also clear that it was only an arrangement for Tony and that he didn’t feel anything beyond reluctant fondness for Peter. He never touched Peter when they were alone except for some almost fatherly shoulder pats, he never initiated any displays of affection unless he knew they were being photographed, didn’t ever seem as hopelessly enamoured with Peter in the same way Peter seemed to become with Tony.

Peter finds himself pulling away just a little bit all the same, giving more and more reasons to not meet up with Tony - because as much as it makes him happy to be around the man, it begins to make his heart hurt a little more every time they’re together, every time Tony brushes his lips against his, places a hand at the small of Peter’s back, knowing it’s only for show. It was great before, when Peter didn’t feel like this - but the knowledge that the guy he had feelings for only kissed him because he was paying Peter to be his fake boyfriend made him feel kind of gross.

It’s fine.

It’s fine, he tells himself, over and over. It’s fine, he thinks, when one day Tony is photographed with a strawberry blonde, a series of shots showing them arm in arm, Tony’s smiling fondly in a way he never did with Peter as she kisses Tony’s cheek. The headlines and the tags refer to Tony as a playboy and about his boytoy being dumped, about being back together with his ‘old flame’.

They look good together, Peter concedes, even if it feels like his chest is caving in and like he’s going to throw up. He just wishes Tony had told him beforehand that he was done with him. Setting his phone down on the bed, Peter stares out into his room listlessly and tries to process the fact that it’s over, but all he sees is the way that Tony has infiltrated his life. The laptop on his desk, a gift from Tony, the watch on his wrist, the jeans on the floor, the signed Reyes baseball on his shelf, all gifts from Tony. Even the phone he saw the pictures on was given to him by Tony. It makes Peter feel wrong in his gut to have touches of the man in his personal intimate space when the guy didn’t even have the courtesy to give him the heads up that he was about to be publicly ‘dumped’ and humiliated.

He returns everything.

Tony must receive the hastily wrapped package with all of his spoils because he tries to call him the following day, Peter’s old cracked phone blinking to life. He ignores it and hangs out with Ned and MJ, wishing he lived closer to May so she could give him one of her healing hugs. His friends commiserate and help him get utterly fucking wasted that weekend, even as they call him a fucking dumbass. 

He wakes up on Sunday with a hangover and eighteen missed calls from Tony. The calls are followed by a series of texts, the contents going from confused, to concerned to downright stern and then concerned again. 

As he’s making himself breakfast and a coffee there is a knock on his door. When he opens it he sees a furious looking Tony, the bulging parcel that Peter had sent him under his arm.

“Oh, so you _are_ alive,” Tony drawls, shouldering his way into Peter’s apartment. 

Peter curses his stomach for the butterflies when Tony brushes against him to get inside, telling himself to stop feeling anything as he closes the door behind them. 

“Mr. Stark - “

“What’s this about?” Tony says, setting the parcel on Peters tiny kitchen table and leaning against his counter. “Hmm? Is this you returning my hoodies and CD’s? I mean in this case it's not the nineties and it’s a six-thousand dollar watch and jeans I’ll never fit into, but you get the gist.”

Peter leans against the opposite counter, mirroring Tony’s folded arms. He nods to the items and says, “I only thought it was appropriate, you know, considering.”

“Considering what, Petey?” Tony says, his face perplexed, even behind his shades. “You gotta fill me in, you know, communicate. What are we considering? If you were considering terminating your contract you should have just said so.”

Peter looks at him, narrowing is eyes. “Considering that you are with someone else and don’t need me anymore…? It’s fine, Tony, I just would have appreciated a heads up, is all.”

“I’m what?” Tony says, looking like his brain is doing a hard reset. “I’m what with who now?”

“The strawberry blonde? Paprika?”

“Pepper,” Tony corrects faintly, slowly coming back online.

“Pepper! That’s it. Her. Anyway, congrats," he blinks, eyes stinging. "You uh, look great together.”

Tony tilts his head and considers Peter, the intensity of his stare making him squirm. 

“So, let me wrap this all up in a nice, little bundle and you tell me if I have it right, okay? You see some news article, think I’m seeing Pepper, so you decide to send back everything I ever bought you and not answer any of my calls. Is that it?”

Peter nods, tries to ignore his stupid heart trying to beat itself out of his chest to get to Tony.

“Yeah, that’s - that’s it. I mean, thank you for everything, Tony. It just doesn’t seem right to keep any of it.”

“Why?” Tony asks, stepping closer to Peter and pocketing his shades. “It's all yours. I want you to have them. You deserve them.”

Peter determinedly avoids the mans gaze by looking down at his feet, tapping one against the tiles. “It’s just not right.”

“Look at me,” Tony says, and when Peter tilts his head up the man is suddenly a lot closer than he was moments before. His chest aches at the familiar smell of his aftershave.

"Tony --"

“Listen," Tony interrupts. "I’m not with Pepper, we’re just friends. You shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

“Oh.”

“And I would have appreciated you asking me before losing my number.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Peter repeats, rubbing at the ache in his chest with his hand. “I’m sorry, I should have asked, you’re right.”

“So… does that mean you’ll take your stuff back and answer my calls again? Maybe join me in Florence next weekend? I know a great place you’d like.”

The small, almost imperceptible hope in Tony’s voice makes Peter’s throat go tight as his stomach drops with what he’s about to say. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Stark. I don’t think we should do this - I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Tony frowns and steps even closer. “Is it about the press? I can shut down every single one of those if you give me, like an hour tops, maybe two if I have to buy out Murdoch as well.”

“It’s not the press.”

“Then what is it? What, are you bored?”

Peter shakes his head. “Don’t make me say it,” he whispers, looking down at his feet again as his cheeks get warm, eyes prickling. 

“Peter, if you’re leaving me out in the cold after six months that’s your choice, but I gotta know why.”

“It’s just,” he begins, cutting himself off to swallow. He tries again. “It’s - I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. I can’t handle feeling like this about you when everything you feel about me is in a contract. It’s not right for me to be in love with you, when I’m being paid to _pretend_ that I am.”

“You’re in love with me,” Tony says.

“I’m sorry, I know I wasn’t supposed to -- “

Anything else he was going to say is cut off when Tony bridges the distance between them and presses his lips to Peters in a soft kiss. 

“Well thank god,” Tony says. “Otherwise that would have made my feelings for you kind of awkward.”

Peter blinks dumbly.

“Your…huh?”

“I probably should have fired you the moment I fell for you? I don’t know, the logistics are kind of weird, but we both know I’m selfish and a little morally bankrupt, so. I didn’t. But you fired yourself anyway.”

“Huh?” Peter says again, a little dazed by the turn of events. “Am I still asleep? Did you say you have feelings for me?”

“Okay, you are _not_ a morning person,” Tony says, taking one of Peter’s hands and bringing it up to his mouth to kiss it. “Yes. It’s kind of embarrassing, I haven't done the whole love declaration since oh-eight. Frightfully passé, but apparently you love me too, so, I guess we’re both losers.”

The burst in his heart propels him forward to kiss Tony again, wrapping his arms around the mans neck. 

“So,” Tony prompts when they pull apart some time later, breathless. “Florence, yes or no?”

“Yes, but no more payments.”

A kiss.

“Fine. But I still get to buy you things. Lots of things.”

Another kiss.

“… fine.”

Peter supposes those terms and conditions can wait.


	3. Gold Digger AU

**Warnings: Escort Peter Parker, mentions of erectile dysfunction  
  
**

\------  
  


Tony isn’t Peter’s first wealthy boyfriend.

His laundry list of previous entanglements is by no means lengthy, however it is somewhat selective. The criteria is simple: men with money - lots and lots of money.

Four years ago Peter been desperate. Six weeks behind rent his landlord was threatening to have him evicted, electricity already cut off, he’d dropped out of school to work three jobs. The cost of his aunts cancer treatment was so high even the most dubious loans couldn’t cover them. Everything was beginning to pile up with no way out.

So, in despair, he became an escort.

It was high end and he got lucky. One of his very first clients was a man so wealthy he practically exuded dollars from his pores, dropping a ten thousand dollar tip on Peter on their first night. The man seemed to like him, hiring Peter again and again, dressing him up in designer clothes and taking him to the most exclusive venues. 

Peter would have enjoyed it, had the man not been the scum of the earth.

No matter exorbitant his gifts were it never made up for how bad a man he was. Money couldn’t cover up his drunken racist remarks. Lavish luxury couldn’t excuse how the man looked down on the poor, literally spitting on the homeless as they passed them on the streets.

By the time Peter had cycled through a few rich clients he’d more than covered the cost of his aunts treatment, their rent paid six months in advance. He could even afford to pay off his student loans and move out on his own. He resigned with the escort agency, keen to get his life back on the straight-and-narrow.

Except, he had a taste for it, now. The creature comforts, the luxury cars, the attention. The satisfaction he got from ripping off perverts who hired him because his young face made him seem underage.

The things he had seen made his stomach turn. How was he supposed to go back to a normal life knowing what he knew about Hollywoods seedy underbelly beneath its glistening city lights?

So, he went out looking for them. 

They were all the same. Incredibly privileged men with more money than humanity, morally bankrupt despite their bulging bank accounts. All wanting something young and pretty on their arm and warm in their bed - no matter how much they have to fork out for the illusion of a smitten partner. 

It only ever took a few sweet words, wide eyes and wandering hands to hook them in and drain them dry. 

Once Peter would have his fill he’d sell their secrets to rival companies, then to law enforcement. It was by no means a humanitarian endeavour, but it made him feel good in the same way donating to charity did.

And he looked damn good doing it.

——

Peter had met Tony on a cloudy Monday morning. 

He’d heard all about Tony Starks philandering antics and his acerbic personality and pegged him to be just like the others, just another playboy looking for something to play with.

So he managed to get hired as Tony’s personal assistant, hamming it up as a meek, clumsy newbie. As the weeks progressed, the more flimsy Peters’ outfits became, one too many buttons open on his thin dress shirts, voice soft, eyelashes fluttering as he leaned in close to the man to pass him his coffee or a contract. 

It was the same drawcard he’d used for all the affluent assholes he’d dated prior; whether a high powered lawyer or a CEO, they all seemed to have a weakness for simpering submissive types, those who dropped things too many times, those who played dumb, didn’t engage in intellectual conversation. 

It took Peter an embarrassingly long time to figure out that kind of behaviour didn’t interest Tony for anything more than a one-night stand. 

Sure, he’d caught the end of Tony’s prolonged stares more than once, had noticed the appreciative leers whenever he bent over a table or to pick something up, but it wasn’t enough to truly engage him.

It wasn’t until one day, Peter frustrated and exhausted from a poor nights rest, had spoken back to the man with a scathing remark that Tony had really started to pay attention.

Tony _likes_ bossy. Tony likes being challenged by someone he considers an equal. Once Peter dropped the facade of wide-eyed innocence, proved his smarts and snarked back it was like reeling in all-too-willing fish.

They’d been bantering all day, mostly light-hearted, because apparently that’s flirting, according to Tony and Peter can’t fault him for that. 

Peter had been teasing Tony for hours, all his usual tricks. In the afternoon he’d squeezed behind Tony’s chair and set his hands on the mans shoulders, lightly massaging the tight muscles through his shirt. A treat for all his hard work Peter had simpered, going back to their discussion on quantum field theory.

“I know what you’re doing, you know,” Tony had said, but relaxed into the touch anyway.

“Do you? Is it working, Mr. Stark?” Peter had asked, hands coming down to stroke at Tony’s chest. The man had near purred as Peters hands trailed over his pectorals. 

“It’s definitely working. At least let me take you to dinner first.”

So he did. Peter had been wined and dined that night, followed by the best fuck of his life, riding the man in the backseat of Tony’s car. And the rest was history.

Back then he’d only forecasted the longevity of their relationship to be a few months. A fleeting romance, however long enough for Peter to get into Tony’s wallet and for Tony to show his true colors.

Except, Peter is still waiting, is the thing.

Despite all his expectations and his fevered observations, Tony hasn’t slipped up yet. With the mans combined net worth and reputation, Peter had expected more than one skeleton cluttering his closet, red flags and scandals waiting to be uncovered.

The only secrets Peter finds in two years are the ones Tony whispers into his skin at night, his deepest insecurities and worst memories.

As time drags on Peter is beginning to suspect that maybe he rolled the dice wrong and maybe Tony just isn’t a bad guy.

Not long ago they were in Paris. They’d sat upon their terrace drinking coffee in the morning sun, making up life stories of the people passing below. Tony snorted at a particularly funny one and looked at Peter with such unadulterated affection and said:

“I fucking love you, Peter Parker.”

That was new.

—— 

The guilt is also new to Peter.

It’s not that Peter has never experienced remorse, but he’s not once felt a single modicum of contrition for the men he’s played or the luxurious gifts he took with him.

Peter keeps waiting for Tony to give him a reason to cut him off. Keeps waiting for the incriminating tabloid pictures proving Tony’s infidelity, anticipates some white collar crime to sneak into the newspapers, or like his last boyfriend, a violent temper.

But it’s been two years and Tony has yet to slip up. His interest hasn’t waned, his hands haven’t wandered. Peter would know - he’d set Tony up on three seperate occasions and the man is _unfailingly_ faithful. 

The only thing that has changed is the ever increasing way in which Tony softens for Peter, how the fondness reaches his eyes and is woven into his words.

Tony isn’t Peter’s first wealthy boyfriend, but he has been his longest. The longer their relationship continues it becomes considerably clear that Peter miscalculated terribly. 

Because, despite public opinion, Tony is a good man. A really fucking good man.

Peter is never left wanting for intimacy or possessions, the only absence in his life is misbehaviour. Of course Tony isn’t perfect, he has his vices. He drinks too much, works too hard, loves like it’s going out of style. He spoils Peter and values everything he has to say. It’s the worst.

So, the guilt.

Peter feels lied to. The public, playboy persona of Tony Stark does not align with reality at all. Peter went to Tony for his transactions but Tony ended up giving him his heart instead. 

It was Peter who was supposed to do the ruining, not the other way.

——

Galas were never really Peter’s thing.

There was too much ceremony and exaggerated decorum for it to be any real fun. Any entertainment was usually in the form of a high profile guest tripping over themselves or a rowdy politician overindulging on the free alcohol.

Tonight it was to commemorate some new arts centre. They’d been there for an hour already but it felt like entire night was dripping by in slow-motion, minutes bloated in boredom. 

Peter is sullen, given up playing nice with the socialites and pretending he has anything in common with these people. He just wants to be at home in the jacuzzi, being hand-fed caviar and truffles. Is that honestly so much to ask?

As he’s about to suggest as such to Tony, a hand touches his wrist to get his attention. 

He frowns, looking over as some guy gestures to him, eyeing him up and down.

“How much?”

Tony’s arm around his waist keeps him upright as he politely removes his arm from the strange mans grasp.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

The man, short, stout and wielding a fat cigar between his fingers like a weapon, points at the diamond encrusted necklace dangling from Peters neck. The pendant, a large bejewelled spider, rests heavily against his sternum, hung by a solid gold plated chain.

“My niece loves the creepy fuckers,” the guy says by way of explanation, smoothing his tie down upon approach. “Got a thing for them. Has her own pet tarantula, can you believe?”

The arm around Peters waist tightens.

“It was custom made,” Tony supplies, pressing a kiss to Peters cheek whilst squeezing his hip. “Just for Peter. Cartier were generous enough to make it for our anniversary.”

Peter smiles at the mention, looks every bit the doting boyfriend as he leans into Tony further, winding his arm around the older mans waist. The man never fails to exude an effortless, old-school debonair charm, the satin lapels of his tuxedo reflecting the lowlight of the chandelier glow.

The stranger nods, chest hitching with a laugh. 

“Anniversary, huh? Well, congratulations,” he commends, nudging Tony with his elbow. “How long? Six weeks? Six days?”

“Two years,” Peter says, voice hardening. 

“I’m sorry, who are you again?” Tony adds, flagging down a waiter and scooping two flutes of champagne from the tray. “Do you know this guy, baby?”

“Nope,” Peter replies, accepting a glass from Tony with his free hand, toasting their glasses together with a clink. “No idea. I think he works here?”

“Does your manager let you mingle with staff?” Tony adds. “Isn’t that so adorable, honey?”

“So adorable,” Peter agrees, smiling at his lover. 

He enjoys watching the scowl form, the flustered, sheepish twitch of the mans lips as he struggles to find something to say.

“Excuse me,” is all the man says, turning on the spot and disappearing into a crowd of haute couture.

Tony lets go of his waist to turn further into Peter, hand coming up to trace the delicate chain up to the bump of his collarbone. It really is an exquisite piece, Peter concedes as Tony’s fingers grip the pendant, using it to pull Peter closer.

Peter goes willingly, flushing their bodies together. He slips both of his hands onto Tony’s hips, wondering if he could get away with snaking them into the mans back pockets, if he could squeeze Tony’s ass in public view. There’s something arousing about being crass in a formal setting like this, surrounded by Los Angeles’ elite and foregoing all of their staged propriety.

Tony must sense the intent because his gaze surrenders to Peter’s, leaning in to place a placating kiss on the corner of Peter’s mouth.

“Tony, Tony,” comes the chiding tone of Obadiah Stane. “What have I said about being indecent in public?”

“To only do it if I’m getting paid for it?” Tony quips, but loosens his grip on Peter nonetheless to shake his hand with his associate. 

Obadiah gestures to Tony with the hand that holds a glass of whiskey, speaking to Peter. “Think’s he’s a wise guy, doesn’t he?”

Peter smiles demurely, hand coming to rest on the back of Tonys neck. He knows better than to think that the man actually wants to hear his opinion on the matter.

“And, please remind me, which of us graduated college at seventeen?” Tony retorts not unkindly. “I think I’m absolutely qualified considered to call myself wise, wouldn’t you say Pete?”

It’s not Peter’s function to be funny in this play, so he swallows the already formed quips and nods, fingers stroking at Tony’s hairline as he pastes a wide smile on his face. 

Tony tugs playfully on Peters pendant, pulling him in for a chaste kiss. “Why don’t you get us some more drinks, sweetheart. I’ll come find you.”

Glancing between the two men, Peter agrees, letting his fingers brush the back of his neck as he walks away.

It’s not the first time Tony has tried to shield business from him, won’t be the last. In the early days Tony would rave ad nauseam about his company, all the tech being developed, conjoined at the hip to his office. He’s been quiet about it, lately. 

Peter doesn’t know what that means and reminds himself that he shouldn’t actually care. He’s done nothing to earn Tony’s trust, after all. 

When he reaches the bar he orders himself a vintage wine, sipping it as he cooly observes the room. 

The elite. The upper echelons of society. Or so they call themselves, as if they aren’t just every bit animal as Peter, if not more. As if the room isn’t full of criminals and adulterers, their wealth built on the exploitation over the lower ninety-ninth percent of the rest of the world. 

While Tony talks shop Peter leans against the edge of the bar, sipping, observing. He spots Pepper Potts in the distance and raises his glass to her when she nods to him. 

She doesn’t make much effort to hide how little she thinks of him, which is a shame, Peter thinks. He is _ever so grateful_ for her hiring him as Tony’s PA those two years ago. 

If she hadn’t taken a look at his heavily falsified resume and considered him a shoo-in then where would he be right now? Probably on the arm of some lower level wall-street rat, which would be _comfortable_ , but not where he wants to be.

It doesn’t take Tony long to finish, clapping Stane on the back and ambling over to the bar. He takes in the curved line of Peter’s inelegant slouch with unashamed appreciation, loafers skipping with a squeak against the polished floorboards as his step falters.

“That just for you?” Tony asks, nodding towards his half drunk wine. “You ready to go home, doll?”

Peter tucks his elbow into his chest, protectively clutching the glass closer to him. “Mhmm,” he hums agreeably, taking a large sip and downing the rest, watching Tony watching him. Once drained Tony offers his arm.

Depositing the empty glass on the glass counter with a clink Peter takes his arm, rolling his eyes at their antics, grinning nonetheless. 

They wave to various dignitaries, trust fund babies and political hopefuls as they make their departure, promising nebulous future appointments and catch ups, none of which will happen, but they all like to pretend. 

Outside in the cool fall air Tony pulls a stack from his back pocket, depositing it into the hand of the nearest valet. The woman scurries off to retrieve their car as soon as the notes nestle into her palm.

A sleek sports car, a model that Peter has never seen, pulls up while they wait, a woman covered in silk slipping inside. Tony whistles at the seamless lines, the near silent growl of the engine as it takes off into an opportune gap of traffic.

“I want one,” Peter says, transfixed at the gleaming paintwork. He turns to Tony and tugs on his tie. “In rose gold.”

“In rose gold,” Tony echoes softly into the night air, rolling his eyes. Peter can already see him mentally pulling out his checkbook as he smooths his tie down. “Anything else, baby?”

Peter only smiles as the Audi pulls up, slipping into the far end of the backseat and pulling along with him. He still has an ounce of refinement from his aunts lessons in him, so he waits until they have left the parking lot to sink to the car floor inbetween Tonys knees. 

This isn’t a hardship for him at all. In fact, having sex with Tony is his favorite past time.

With practised movement he slithers his hands up Tony’s thighs, spreading them apart. Their driver turns up the music as Tony’s zipper slides down.

Tony is predictably soft when Peter pulls him out, lazily fondling his length, Tony’s eyes getting progressively hazier as his cock gets stiffer. Peter enjoys laving the head with kitten licks, Tony’s soft groan as he licks his way from the base back up before taking the entire head into his mouth. 

It takes a while for Tony to get fully hard. Peter knows he’s insecure about it but it makes their age gap more apparent - and incredibly arousing.

Seated like a king upon his throne Tony hums in satisfaction, gently brushing his knuckles against the high crest of Peters cheek.

“So good at that, darling. Want to push your pretty head down and fuck your mouth.”

Peter groans affirmatively around the flesh in his mouth, encouraging Tony to do just that as he reaches for the older mans hand. 

“God, I love you,” Tony breaths, gently thrusting up.

Peter’s glad his mouth is occupied with Tony’s cock so he doesn’t have to reply.

——

When they get home after the gala Peter has worked Tony up enough to get thoroughly fucked against the windows of their bedroom, come shooting all over the glass. They shower and stumble into bed shortly thereafter. 

Under the sheets Tony curls into Peter, placing a sleepy kiss on his bare sternum, the warm exhalations from the mans nose tickling his skin. 

It’s not until Tony falls asleep that Peter allows himself to return it, pressing his lips into the older mans hair and sighing into the greying strands. Not for the first time he wonders if he’s in over his head.

There’s a slimy feeling all over his skin. Tony loves him. Tony is good and he loves Peter. Peter, who came into this relationship because he thought the man was made of too much stone to bleed. 

Somehow under all of the glamour and supposed moral superiority he’s become the very type of snake he’s been trying to ruin these last years.

He’s been a fool for staying this long, allowing himself to grow fond. Peering down at Tony’s vulnerable form, Peter knows he shouldn’t stay. Can’t stay. Better late than never to do the right thing, isn’t it?

Tony deserves better.

——

It’s for the best, he tells himself.

Sad, but resolute, starts pulling away. He surreptitiously packs his things, stays longer and longer at their Beverley Hills apartment until Tony begins to notice his prolonged absence. 

One night they are having dinner out at some high-end restaurant, Tony preoccupied on his phone. It’s happening more and more lately. Once there was a time where the man would determinedly dedicate the entire night to making Peter see stars without touching his phone once.

Maybe he’s losing interest in Peter after all. 

The thought shouldn’t make his chest hurt.

“Sorry about that, baby,” Tony says as he hangs up, reaching over to take Peters hand.

“Work comes first,” Peter appeases, squeezing Tonys fingers before pulling away to re-arrange his napkin.

Tony looks at him, eyes searching for just a moment. 

“You come first, Pete. You mean everything to me, you know that right?”

Peter nods, throat tightening up. He offers Tony a smile he knows must look flimsy and sips his wine to avoid saying something stupid.

“Me and Obie are working on something, baby. Something big. I know I haven’t been around much, but trust me when I say it’s going to be worth it.”

The hopeful, earnest smile on Tony’s face makes Peter feel like the worst person in the world.

However fine their food is, all Peter tastes is guilt.

——

It takes a few weeks but he makes his arrangements. 

Every day spent apart feels like a sandpaper scrub to his heart, leaving him raw and aching. When they’re together Peter hides his the wet pinprick of his eyes until Tony isn’t looking, only allows Tony to take him from behind so in his head he can call it fucking instead of love-making.

Tony Stark loves hard. It isn’t fair of Peter to take advantage of that anymore. 

So he picks fights. Begins acting like the vapid airhead he pretended to be when they first met. He spends less time in their bed and watches as Tony looks at him with increasing sadness.

Peter wants to be the type of guy that Tony deserves, but he isn’t. He might not have much money of his own but the one thing he can give Tony is the opportunity to be with someone who didn’t use him.

Turns out it’s Peter that’s just like the others, after all.

——

More and more time is spent at their alternative apartment, then May’s apartment. He tries to figure out what his life is supposed to look like, after. The sadness is distracting, but it doesn’t have any right being there.

He scrolls through endless online job listings, but ultimately his efforts are fruitless.

How is he supposed to explain the gaping gap years on his resume? What are his applicable skills? Being a money hungry sugar baby?

Not only that, but Tony Stark is nothing but high profile. Over the last two years Peter has been in countless pap photos, endless grainy TMZ clips. How is he supposed to go back to a regular life when he’s had articles written about his relationship?

It makes him frustrated and depressed. It makes him miss Tony who best waved away all Peters worries with a kiss and stream of distracting words.

He tries to stay away.

The need to be in Tony’s arms again wins over his moral crusade.

—–

On a midday venture back to the the mansion in Malibu, Peter intends to only be there a little while. Maybe have lunch with his - with Tony. 

He thinks he really should pick up the last of his belongings until he stops dead in the living room, color draining out of his face as he spots the older man.

“Tony?” he slowly approaches, hovering by the sofa. “You okay?”

Tony sits hunched over upon the sofa, head buried into his hands.

“S’all gone,” Tony whispers, burying his face deeper into his palms. 

“What do you mean,” Peter asks cautiously, moving closer and sinking to his knees to kneel between Tony’s legs, loosely clutching at the mans wrists. “What’s gone, babe?”

Tony gestures vaguely to everything around them, lifting his face from his hands long enough to indicate at their surroundings. His hands shake as they are brought back to his mouth, eyes red.

“You. Them.”

Peter shakes his head, guilt coming at him for a whole different reason. “I don’t –”

“They voted me out,” Tony interrupts, voice hoarse. “I put everything we own into this new deal. It was gonna earn us _billions_ , baby - and when they accepted the board voted me out - he fucking _framed_ me –”

“Ssh, hey,” Peter soothes, leaning inwards to press a kiss to Tony’s jaw. “It’s okay, Tony - “

“After this deal I have _nothing_ ,” Tony shakes his head, refusing to meet Peters eyes. “I threw all our chips in knowing it was a good bet. Fucking Stane, I swear to god I’m –”

Tony runs out of steam, his head hanging low, the defeat making the man look smaller. Shame and fear roll off of Tony in waves, his hands visibly shaking, chest hitching.

Something in Peter snaps and he lets go.

“I know I don’t tell you this enough,” Peters voice cracks, “but I love you. I really fucking love you.”

“I’m losing you too,” Tony whispers, wrecked. “I can see it. You don’t want me anymore, and why would you? I have nothing to offer you.”

Peter shakes his head, peppering kisses over the glistening tear trails on the mans face, resolve solidifying. It breaks his heart to see Tony like this - how could he ever think of leaving him - the only thing Tony ever wanted from him was unconditional and free.

He may not be what Tony deserves but Peter has always been selfish.

“I’ve lost everything, baby. I’m nothing.”

Peter shuffles closer on his knees, tilting his head down to capture Tony’s red-rimmed gaze.

“You’re everything. I don’t care if you don’t have a single penny. I want to be with _you_ , okay? You’re my Tony.”

Tony smiles wetly. “And you’re my Peter. You’ll stay with me?”

Peter nods, kissing him sweetly, an idea forming into his mind as his anger grows towards Tony’s former associate. The fucking nerve of anyone knowing the real Tony Stark and wanting to hurt him sets his cells ablaze. There’s one way to right this wrong, to prove himself.

“If you’ll have me - and… if you want, I’m going to help you.”

Tony blinks, expression going serious. “What do you mean?”

Peter grins wryly. 

“Let’s just say I know a thing or two about getting into someones skin. Stane won’t see me coming.”


	4. Post-Endgame NYE

**Summary: Five years after the events of endgame Tony is resurrected. Months after that, he's still trying to find equilibrium**

**Warnings: Fluff, mild angst, slight existential woes.**

\----

Some things never change. Like, being riddled with nerves whilst attending big events. 

Or, the little ticks, tips and tricks he’s adopted to mitigate the uneasiness, like bouncing his leg up and down, firing off questions to anyone in earshot like, _do you think they’ll have sushi at this thing, I have a craving_. 

Or Pepper singing along to whatever is playing on the car ride over, and Morgan answering his inane questions with things like, _ew, sushi_.

Some things do change, though.

Like, coming back to life after five years of being dead. Or being delegated to the backseat next to his daughter, despite the honourable resurrection. Or having his wife remarry in the years following his death. 

You know, typical resurrection things, like realizing that the entire world and everyone you knew has changed. 

Tony’s got a thing about control. Always has. He likes to know, _has_ to know all of the variables. He thought he knew all of them before he snapped his fingers and prayed to the stones in his gauntlet.

Here’s the thing about infinity stones: they’re sentient. They like balance. They’re also assholes with a perverted sense of symmetry.

Somehow, perfect balance and perfect symmetry translated into bringing Tony back to life after five years. Or, being suspended in the ether that was neither life, nor death, the holding cell between worlds. 

That was the airy-fairy, hand-wavey way that Strange explained to him. Sparkles and mystery. But Tony doesn’t remember any of it. The not being alive. One moment his heart was giving out, the next he was clawing himself out of the earth. 

That was pleasant.

Emerging dirty and naked to find he’d missed five years of his life was also a barrel of laughs. Missing five years of his daughters growth, finding out his wife had moved on? Hilarious. Best cosmic joke to have happened to him yet.

Though, Tony supposes this is how the recovered Snap victims felt, after. Chasing and chasing the years that were missed, feeling as if they will never be completely caught up.

But that was months ago, his resurrection. Reawakening. Whatever. Seven months and three and a half weeks, if he’s counting. He’d say he isn’t, but he definitely is. He’d used the time mostly caught up on the life of his friends and family, shed his tears. He’s lamented Steve, grieved over Natasha all over again. Wondered why the divine equilibrium didn’t include her sacrifice. 

But he’s learned to be okay. He’s living back at the re-built compound with Clint and Wanda and the old-new crowd of super-people that populate the place he used to call home. 

He doesn’t don the suit, hasn’t since he came back, worried that the moment he activates the housing unit that it will all be over, and Morgan will lose her father for the second time. 

He’s a consultant, now, for the new team. Financier. Benefactor. It’s very boring.

“You _sure_ you want to go to this thing,” Tony says again, stretching his legs so his knees hit the driver's seat in front of him, where Peppers’ new husband sits. “You don’t want a quiet one at home? Ring in New Years with the llamas?”

“Morgan wants to go,” Pepper repeats, peering back to smile at her daughter. “Right, sweetpea?”

Beside Tony, Morgan looks up from her hand-held video game and nods vehemently, smiling brightly. Tony feels betrayed by her enthusiasm.

“Are they paying you to say that?” he leans in, whispering close to her ear. “You can tell me Morgasboard, name your price. I’ll beat it.”

His daughter flicks her gaze between her mother and Tony. She leans into her father and whispers loud enough for the entire car to hear, “Uncle Peter is going to be there. I haven’t seen him in _forever_.”

Tony sighs exaggeratedly, nodding along, even though he knows she saw him two weeks ago. 

“Forever is a long time,” he agrees. 

That was another change that Tony feels weird and wonderful about. 

Somehow, in the time that he was six-feet-under, his former protege had become something akin to family to his daughter. Which, if he’s honest, in the years after the Snap, was the goal, the dream as he skipped through time with the Avengers, the proverbial _what if_ that drove him to say yes that one, final time. 

Happy families, he’d thought. What else could two wayward orphans hope for? At the very least, he's glad that Peter got _that_ part of the deal. That Morgan got Peter. He'd spent five years dreaming of them getting along like a house on fire, after all.

Even if Tony didn’t really have either, after.

“Uncle Peter could go back to the compound or the penthouse with us,” Tony offers, nudging his daughter. “You could ask DUM-E to be your new years kiss.”

“You have a speech scheduled, right, babe?” Peppers husband, Greg, cuts in. He was hired as CFO of SI three years ago and it was heart eyes at first sight, Tony is told. He watches as Greg frees one of his grubby hands from the steering wheel to reach across the console and squeeze her knee.

“Sure do,” Pepper smiles, snaking her hand down to clutch his, squeezing their fingers together. 

Tony’s not jealous. No, really. He’s adjusted, he’s over it. That ship sailed.

But he’s still Tony Stark, so he’s unapologetically petulant. And it’s Pepper, what kind of ex would he be if he didn’t properly field the prospects of the one woman he truly loved?

Feigning a stretch, he kicks his feet out again and jolts the driver's seat, delight welling up when Greg huffs irritatedly. Morgan giggles as if it’s some kind of game, and all the adults pretend that it is to please her. The unimpressed stare from his ex-wife caught through the rear-view mirror does little to dampen his satisfaction.

It’s the little wins, Tony thinks, as they pull up to the building, paparazzi huddling around the rope barriers that flank the red carpet, flashes firing through the tinted windows as they come to a stop.

Just because some things change, doesn’t mean _he_ has to.

It’s that mentality that gets him through the dreaded, interminable walk from the car to the ballroom entrance. _This is old hat_ , he tells himself as he waves to the crowd. _You could do this with your eyes closed_. God, he used to be so good at pretending to care about this kind of crap.

Reporters brandish their network-issued microphones at him, at his family. Fans shoulder against security, all of them yelling out in a cacophony of noise he might call white were it not the sound of his own name, in all of its iterations. 

Although he’d rather make a beeline straight to the ballroom he stops and greets a few fans, shakes a few hands, high-fives a few kids. After a slew of signings and selfies the comparatively calm interior of the ballroom is blissfully welcomed. The quartet supplying tunes in the far corner is a reprieve. 

So is the way that Pepper clutches Greg’s hand and leads him away at the same time Morgan clutches Tony’s. She looks back and says, _be good._ Tony doesn’t know if she’s directing it to him or their daughter. Socialites swan around them, but Tony just looks down at his daughter and smiles. He squeezes her tiny fingers.

“You wanna dance, Morgarita?”

Her serious expression turns gleeful as she drags him to the centre of the room to dance without a shred of shyness. 

She’s a lot like she was before he died. Smart and mischievous, cute as a button. But she’s markedly different, caught in that pre-teen phase where she’s gaining modicums of independence. Tony’s getting used to not needing to make all her meals or do her hair for her. He kinda misses it.

Little things. It’s always the little things.

She’s taller now, too. That was a change, to have his daughters head rest against his chest when she hugs him. She’s too tall to be picked up, too proud when Tony offers. So she wraps her arms around his midsection and they sway together on the dance-floor. Few couples are dancing, mostly oldies, or a couple toddlers doing the twist to Vivaldi's Four Seasons. The night is still young. But, like anything in high society, it’s all smoke and mirrors. 

Which means most guests are mingling, telling each other how beautiful and fabulous they are, filling the room with so much re-circulated pomp and hot air the room is practically a hotbox.

Of course it’s a business event as much as it is a philanthropic one, so not even Tony can avoid the inevitable schmoozing that comes along with it. When Morgans tired feet demand a break they seek out seats and snacks - and they too, are sought out.

To his ire, associates come and go like a conveyor belt to shake his hand, politicians and socialites thank him for reversing the Snap, the Blip, the Click, the Dusting, all of the stupid names and his daughter is sitting right there, growing more and more morose at each mention of the worst thing that ever happened to her.

So Tony looks down at his daughter, mid conversation with a senator and says, “Hey, sweet child of mine, wanna go to the dessert table?”

She perks up at that and is off like a rocket to the other side of the room where swathes of mouth-watering sweets are spread over an eighteen foot table. 

Tony follows her beeline without saying goodbye to the senator, mentally rubbing his hands together at the grub. He’s sure he will pay for directing his daughter to a trove of sugar and hyperactivity. But desperate times. 

Who is he kidding. He’s going to need all the sweet stimulation he can possibly consume to get through this shit-show himself. 

When he catches up Morgan already has chocolate smeared on her lips. Fancy desserts perch daintily upon gold lined plates, on tiered stands. Thin streams of velvety, liquid chocolate trickle out of apex fountains, flakes of edible gold cover the setting. She points excitedly with messy fingers to the ones she wants Tony to try. Shit. He should resist, right? He’s really isn’t supposed to eat dairy. That, along with his faulty levels of serotonin, was something the all powerful stones failed to fix. Which was really just plain lazy, if you ask him. 

But damn if his daughter doesn't look so fucking cute, chomping on bite size cheesecake and humming off-tone to the tune of her favorite cartoon. He spies a flamboyant looking fruit-pastry and thinks, no Tony, don't. Don't do it. Cholesterol.

Then he sees a yellow-treat that makes his mouth water and thinks, _I can work it off tomorrow._

With surrender in his mind, Tony reaches over the plates and crams an entire Portugese egg tart in his mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk to accommodate the pastry. Morgan laughs, tipping her neck back in unbridled delight.

“Do it again!” she says, bouncing on her feet.

He does. And then again, and again.

Which is how Peter Parker finds him no more than ten minutes later.

“Mr. Stark!”

Tony nearly chokes in his haste to chew and swallow the pastry when Peter swans into view, dressed to the nines and grinning a mile wide. He hears Morgan gasp delightedly beside him, running off to catch up with the younger man while Tony tries not to quietly asphyxiate.

Swallowing roughly, Tony gives him a thumbs up.

Several feet away, Morgan throws her gangly arms around Peter. She buries her head into his chest, just like she does with Tony, brown hair cascading over her shoulders as she embraces him tightly. Peter settles his arms around her neck and leans down to kiss the crown of her head, whispering something to hear that Tony can’t hear.

There’s a weird pang somewhere behind his ribs at the sight. 

He swipes his half-empty flute of champagne from the table and downs the remainder in one gulp to cover it. 

“Mr. Parker,” Tony greets, rocking on his feet when his daughter and former protege walk back to him hand-in-hand. “Didn’t know you owned a suit in your size.”

The younger man holds his free arm out, twisting it to test the fit. It’s a grey suit with a maroon dress-shirt, tailored to perfection. It looks new. Peter smiles, creases forming at the corners of his eyes at the action; a small, subtle nod to the years Tony missed. Gone is all of his baby fat, his face angular and defined. He holds himself with more self-assuredness, even now. 

He wouldn’t say it aloud, but Peter grew up handsome. 

Worse, he grew up to be Tony’s _type._

“Oh, this? I didn’t pick it - but it’s nice, right?”

“Yeah. You, uh,” Tony swallows roughly, eyeing the man from head to toe. “You look good. You clean up well, kid.”

Peter rubs the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly at the compliment. 

“Thanks, Mr. Stark. You - you too. You look... good. Really good.”

Peter meets his gaze, his cheeks a furious shade of pink. 

The motion of the room slows as he watches the sparkle reach Peter’s eyes. Everything in his peripherals becomes dull, unfocused. His own heartbeat jackrabbits against his chest and his sure his face is doing something without his permission. 

Tony’s throat clicks when he swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, stepping closer.

_Now_ , Tony thinks, staring at Peter’s face, the earnest smile still tugging at his lips. Now is the time he would say something to curdle the mood. 

Peter being a full-fledged, rent-paying adult adult is new. Being on an even footing with Tony as a person and a professional is new. There’s so much _new_ about him that Tony still has to learn. Albeit, there’s plenty that has stayed the same. His soft-spoken, courteous nature, his ethics.

But Tony can read the unfamiliar in Peter’s posture as much as he does the carefully curated vocabulary, how he stops himself from stammering into subjects he might have stepped into, before. The barely-there lines of age around his eyes, the confident squaring of his shoulders. 

And how Tony finds that his imperfect teeth compliment the ever-wayward hairs of his eyebrows - and how all of it, all of Peter, is now somehow _charming_ , rather than awkward.

“How have you been, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shuffling forward

“Good,” Tony says, lips stretching onto the first genuine smile of the night. He’d try to tug those corners down, were it not for the infectious way Peter’s mouth does the same. “You?”

“Good, yeah. Super busy.”

“That’s good. Good to keep busy. You know what they say about idle minds."

“Yeah,” Peter nods. “It is good. Keeping busy. And how are you? -- Wait, shit, sorry, I already asked that.”

“This one keeps me going,” Tony tugs on a lock of Morgan's hair, taking mercy on him. “You been too busy to see the news about Spider-Man? I know you’re a fan.” 

Peter steps closer again, clasping his hands behind his back, smiling coyly as those around them perk up in interest.

“Which news?”

“Taking down Kingpins empire. Fisk behind bars.” 

“Oh, I _think_ I heard something about that.”

Tony nods, lips quirking upwards.

“What a guy. New York’s never looked cleaner. Although, take that from a guy who hasn’t seen the city for five years.”

“That’s some high praise,” Peter says, wringing his hands together as he nears. 

“He’s a hero,” Tony looks to his daughter. With an affirmative nod of dark hair she concurs.

“I think he’s just a regular guy,” Peter huffs, snorting when Morgan giggles knowingly.

Before Tony can inch closer, maybe to do something impulsive like what his hands have been itching to do and grip the lapels of Peter’s suit jacket, the moment is broken by a nearby cry.

“Peter! There you are!”

With bulbs of sweat beading along his receding hairline, Octavius swims into view, a heavy arm is slung over Peter’s shoulders, politely ignoring at Tony and Morgan. He makes an exaggerated choking gesture at Morgan, who giggles at his exaggerated noises.

“You’re a slippery one, Parker,” he says, shaking Peters' shoulders, seemingly not noticing the interaction before him. “Been looking for you.”

The younger man smiles, gesturing to his company. “Otto, this is --”

“ -- Got some guys that want to meet you,” Octavius interrupts, thick fingers squeezing Peters bicep. He leans in and and whispers in a way Tony is sure is meant to be discreet, “They’re keen to meet the brains behind the project; come say hi.”

Another change Tony never counted on was the trajectory Peter’s life took after his passing. 

Peter never went to MIT like Tony had envisioned for him. He went to Empire State University. Which was, y'know. Okay. Honestly, what good was a will?

Pepper informed Tony that she in fact had reached out prior to his graduation and offered him a position. But Peter had declined. He hadn’t said why, but he’d chosen to work under Otto Octavius at Octavius Industries instead. 

One thing that Tony learned in his short time back in the land of the living was that Otto was infamously proud of his new employee and favoured immensely. 

It’s what Tony would have wanted for Peter, really. Doing what he loves, being given the respect his intellect and kind heart deserves. He seems to be happy and all grown up. As if Tony needs the reminder.

It’s just that Otto was always an insufferable do-gooder. _Save the trees, save the bees_. All noble notions that Tony is heartily on-board with at any other time - but Otto is like the human personification of a PETA advertisement. He’d never been a fan of Tony’s, even after he reformed. Like, literally reformed in his corporeal body. 

Still, do-gooder or not. There’s something about him. Something that Tony doesn’t _like_. Just a vibe he has. He’s got good instincts after all of these years and he knows he’s got a solid hunch. There’s something about that man, he _knows_ it.

It’s got nothing to do with the proprietary hand Otto has on Peters shoulder, like the younger man is just a thing to show off. Or how Tony wanted to be the one doing that.

It’s got nothing to do with the way Peter’s suit perfectly fits his frame, or how the maroon and grey compliments his clear, milky skin.

It’s _definitely_ not related to the way Tony’s heart beats just a little bit faster when Peter is in the room.

Yeah.

“Um, I’ll just be a minute,” Peter smiles apologetically at the Starks, eyes softening at Morgans pout. “I won’t be long, you owe me a dance little miss, remember?”

Tony waves dismissively at him, reaching for another flute of champagne from a passing waiters tray. He swallows another generous mouthful, bubbles burning on their way down. 

With Morgan munching on a gold flaked cheesecake at his side, Tony watches as the young hero is led away. Otto’s hand on his back, guiding him to make nice with some university hacks. Five years ago Peter would have fumbled through these introductions. He would have gone bright red and blurted some weird factoid to make conversation. 

But he’s polished now, Tony watches. Not perfect, but his posture says confident adult, not awkward teenager, like the last time he wore a suit around Tony. This suit really does fit him like a glove. His handshake looks strong, too. Firm.

Were Peter’s hands always that big? 

Tony sips his champagne, observing the girth of his former mentee’s fingers. It’s not until he feels the burn of Morgans stare on the side of his face that he breaks his gaze.

“What,” he says.

She points a chocolate covered finger at his face. 

Tony sighs, shaking his head at her, conveying as much parental disappointment as he can muster. “Morgan, you know how I feel about people pointing a finger at me. Remember, if you’re gonna do it, it should be the middle one.”

Morgan ignores him, wriggling her outstretched finger. “You like him."

Tony huffs. “Of course I like him. He’s your Uncle Pete.”

“No, dad, you like _like_ him. You want to be his _boyfriend_.”

“What -- I do _not_ ,” Tony says, casting her an incredulous stare.

“You do. You want to _marry_ him,” she says, scrunching up her face and making kissy noises. 

“Do not.” 

“Do _too_.”

“I --” he huffs, gesturing to the room at large as his words run away from him. “Do not. I’m the adult. You’re the child. I’m right, you’re wrong. Case closed.”

“Dad.”

“Fine, here,” he fishes out his wallet from his back pocket and slips a crumpled fifty out. He waves it in her face. “Take this and never speak about it again.”

“Can I speak about it to mom?”

He slips out another fifty and hands it to her.

“No.”

She smiles, neatly folding the notes and tucking it into her little bag. Tony stuffs another tart down his throat, knowing he’s been played.

She really is his kid.

\----

It’s not that Tony doesn’t know.

He knows.

It’s familiar after decades of experience. That weird feeling he gets. The fluttering of his heart, the topsy-turvy motion in his stomach, were he any younger he might call them butterflies.

He just doesn’t _get_ it.

There’s a lot of things that were jarring when he awoke, soil under his fingernails as he tore through the earth in the desperate search for oxygen. He remembers waking up, confused and naked, body restored to the moment before he snapped his fingers. He remembers stumbling onto a rebuilt compound, unable to speak, learning that the entire world had moved on and changed without him.

With FRIDAY as his guide Tony had seen all of the monuments and the altars in his name, fresh bouquets propped against them, even years after his death. The adoration and the glorification immortalised in murals and statues, in grants in his name, in tell-all books. 

They’d even made a shitty movie about his life. 

The actor who played him was too short and the woman who played Pepper wore a wig. It was funny. Not like, funny _haha_ , but funny in that uncanny, meta photo-within-a-photo kind of way. 

But when Peter had come to the compound that first time and they talked after they both finished crying -- it was different. And every time after, it was different. 

It was… _awkward_ , for a lack of a better word. At first, they didn’t know how to be around each other, automatically falling into old cast-types of mentor and protege. It was almost immediately clear that their old roles weren’t going to work -- too much between them had altered to fit back into the old model. 

They needed to recalibrate, and quickly.

Their dynamic did change. If Tony thought about it long enough, innocently enough, he might dare to call it a friendship. He would, but there was that feeling in his chest. Beat, beat, bang.

It was a work in progress, to reconcile the flutter in his stomach with the Peter _now_ , with the Peter that was, before. A man who had lost all his baby fat, who was old enough to have colourful stories and a wealth of life experience, who had remarkably broad shoulders looked _damn good_ holding a wrench.

It was the hands. They looked very dexterous. Capable.

But that didn’t stop him from spiralling into deep, existential pockets of despair as he wondered if the stones really thought it was best to revive him so he could actively thirst over someone he used to be responsible for. 

Peter is barely fifteen years older than his daughter. He’s lost count how many real and missing years are between them now between death and the Snap. Five a piece.

He can’t tell his road-runner heart if that’s better or worse, though. 

But, too high on the adrenaline of seeing Peter, he forgets to tell his body to stop, to remind his stupid heart that _this one is not available_. 

\----

Sometime after eleven the gala is in full swing. The mood perks right up in anticipation of the New Year. 

Most of the remaining guests are pleasantly tipsy by this point, if not outright drunk. All of the stirring speeches have been made, Peppers included. Tony tried to listen, however got distracted by - well, anything. But, he tried! The effort was there. For _sure_. Something about giving and starting the year fresh, clean slates. 

The relaxed atmosphere has more couples dancing on the floor. The Mayor and his wife stumble over each other, moguls and A-Listers mingle and take selfies against attractive backdrops. 

Even Morgan grew tired of Tony’s ornery approach to the evening, departing with a kiss to his cheek to dance with her mother.

Tony forgets, sometimes. That people expect something of him, something more. Like his resurrection was divine intervention, and if the universe intended him to be here, surely it was for a purpose higher than acting like a morose old man, hiding in the corners of ballrooms.

It’s just. He doesn’t know where his place is anymore.

Norman Osborne stops by to crow about his latest achievements, his contract with the NYPD to provide surveillance towers all over the city. Tony’s seen them. They’re hard to miss.

“Design’s a little archaic, don’t you think? Not very discreet. A pettier man would say you were overcompensating for something.”

He’s not really paying attention as he’s speaking, too distracted by the debacle before him. Harry Osborn and Peter dance together in the centre of the room, leaned in close to one another and snickering at what the other has said. They look loose and comfortable around one another, as if they were old friends. Or something else. Peter leans in close to Harry’s ear to whisper something, the flush on his face creeping down his neck. In one swift movement Tony throws back the rest of his champagne, wishing the liquid would drown him, stomach turning to cement.

Whatever Norman says in response goes unheard. 

With the crowd dispersed, Peter catches Tony’s eye and waves exuberantly, nearly hitting Harry in the face.

Tony raises his glass, wincing. 

At least some things stay the same.

“They roomed together at ESU,” Norman breaks Tony out of his musings.

Clearing his throat, Tony tries his best to appear indifferent. Why should he care? That’s right, he doesn’t. Not even remotely.

“I see.” _Play it cool_ , he thinks. “They look close, are they —?”

Nailed it.

“No. They tried, but it didn’t work out. Harry’s engaged now.”

“Huh.”

“But Peter is always welcome in our home,” Norman drawls. “He’s like a second son, really. Wasn’t he your protege once?”

Osborn is so _smarmy_. All at once Tony remembers why he hates this man and his dumb, weathered face. His covetous tone makes Tony want to hurl, or send a suit to the nearest Oscorp building and play rain of fire.

“Good god, imagine if he was your son,” Tony says blithely. “As if you need another one of those to mess up.”

Norman huffs.

“You’re hardly the authority on raising well adjusted children, Stark.”

Ire spears up hot to his throat, but before Tony can deliver a withering reply, he’s interrupted by the arrival of Pepper and Greg. 

Morgan trails behind, dragging a laughing Peter with her by hand. She weaves her thin body through the crowd, having pulled the man away from his dance wearing identical grins.

He watches his daughter cut through swathes of the elite in a trail of chiffon, delight clear in the laughter that follows her. Tiny heels clack against the polished ballroom floor, and Peter indulges her mischief, catching Tony’s eye and winking as they near him.

It’s the first time he’s seen his whole family look truly carefree since he came back. 

And Tony is where he should be. An inscrutable mass against the beige, peeling wallpaper. 

The look of distaste on Normans face as he walks away is enough to dampen some of his churlishness as his family form before him. Pepper makes small talk with Peter and Greg smiles awkwardly at a passing senator. Morgan dives for a profiterole before anyone can stop her. For a moment Tony feels like he’s in a McDonalds playground instead of an upper-class charity event.

Pepper must have had a hand in choosing Morgans dress, Tony thinks, because it has pockets. And, watching her as the adults talk, she sneaks handfuls of tarts and truffles into the grooves of her dress. Tony wants to laugh, to wink at her conspiratorially at the same time he wants to tuck her into bed, new years or not. 

Morgan beckons Peter closer to the sweets table. The younger of the two piling her favourite sampled sweets onto a napkin and thrusts them towards Peter, fervently requesting that he try them, _they’re so good, Uncle Peter_. 

“Not everyone wants dessert for dinner, little miss,” Tony reminds her, swiping a napkin off the table and wiping the melted chocolate off the corner of her mouth.

“I’m not a baby, dad,” she complains, taking the napkin from him.

He forgets that too, sometimes.

Peter smiles between them, delicately plucking a single strawberry off one of the offered miniature flans and popping it into his mouth. 

“Mr. Stark. Would you - uh,” Peter breaks off to swallow audibly. “Would you like to dance?”

Otto is by the bar. Harry, by the French Ambassador. Tony is in his self-made corner of the room, nibbling on vol-au-vents and sashimi to pass the time, and his mouth is dry. 

He can smell Peter’s cologne and his sweat when he steps closer and sheepishly offers his hand and Tony’s entire damn body wants to just reach out and interlock their fingers, to pull Peter close and breathe him in. Never has Tony wanted to bury himself in another body before and not come back out, not like this.

Tony would consume all of what Peter had to give, if Peter let him. The offering look in Peter’s eyes say that he would let him.

“I… uh,” Tony begins, searching for a quip to cover his falter. Smiling at his companions, Tony smooths his hand down his tie, pretending the curious looks of concern are just the alcohol. “I need fresh air.”

“Tony --”

“Mr. Stark --”

He waves them off and smiles apologetically, however much it feels like a grimace.

“-- I’ll just be a sec. Is it hot in here? Is anyone else hot? I’m like, sweating here, wow. It’s just pooling under the armpits. I’ll just be a minute, excuse me --”

The crowd parts for him like the red sea as he marches through it in search of the nearest door. But he’s never felt less powerful in his entire life.

Or lives, as it were.

\----

Outside, the air is blissfully fresh and cold. The rooftop is far less crowded than indoors, only a few patrons lean against the railing, cigarette smoke curling up from their fingers, some in quiet conversation with another.

There’s a carefully constructed pyramid of wide, vintage wine glasses brimming with champagne. He’s careful not to topple the entire thing over when he goes to reach for one. Overheated, even as the winter wind nips at him, he takes his drink and finds a quiet corner to sulk in.

Perching upon a stone bench away far away from the others, Tony tips his head up at the starless sky and huffs. 

What the hell does he think he’s doing?

The New York City skyline is alight before him in all its glory, but the memory of how Peter’s face dropped flashes across Tony’s mind on a loop. He looked taken aback. Hurt even. Shame wells up low in Tony’s stomach and doggedly stays there. 

It’s for the best. Right? It has to be for the best. Peter deserves the best and Tony is not that.

It’s not right for him to want to fit himself into Peter’s life when he seems to be happy and successful without Tony - there’s one thing he knows unequivocally about himself is that he would _ruin_ that. Ruin Peter, one of the few good things he has left.

His heart doesn’t get the memo. 

Because when he closes his eyes, all he imagines is the way Peter’s firm body would feel against his. What it would feel like to curl together on the sofa, in bed, under the sheets. How his curls would tickle the underside of Tony’s chin, and what it would be like to trace the lines that branch from his eyes when he smiles, or to stroke the narrow slope of his nose as he sleeps. 

It’s wrong.

It’s wrong because Tony doesn’t fit there. Not there, nor in all of the places he used to. He’s not Iron Man or a businessman. He’s not a husband or a full-time father. He’s not even Peter Parker's mentor. 

What he is, for all of his resurrected glory, is an afterthought. A spectre, hovering in the fringes of all of the places he used to be the centre of.

He smiles, raising his glass to the smoking couple as they nod politely at him.

It’s fine. He’s happy that everyone is happy.

But it’s been months. He ain't Jesus, but surely by now he’d find some sense of _purpose_.

“Mr. Stark?”

When Tony opens his eyes Peter stands before him, clutching a perspiring glass of wine.

Tony doesn’t want to notice, but he does anyway. The look of concern written on his face is unmistakable, even in the dim lighting of the rooftop, the nearby flamelight serves to deepen the frown lines on his young face.

“Are you alright, Mr. Stark? Sorry to follow you out here, you just seem kind of...”

“Surly?” Tony guess. “I’m fine, kid. Just had a few too many. Didn’t want to hurl all over the drapes. No need to worry.”

“I was gonna say overwhelmed, but yeah,” Peter says, shifting closer until Tony’s bent knees hit the top of Peter’s thighs - his stomach swoops, again. “I’m gonna worry anyway.”

“Yeah, well, happy New Year,” Tony says dryly, knocking their glasses together. 

Peter taps his smart-watch with a finger. 

“Still got five minutes before that. Can’t break into Auld Lang Syne yet, Mr. Stark.”

“We could if we were in Halifax,” Tony counters. The younger man tilts his head agreeably and Tony calls the easing of tension from Peter’s shoulders a win.

“Let’s stick to New York.”

“Sure,” he agrees. “You don’t have somewhere you’d rather be? You got four-something minutes.”

“Right here, actually, if that’s okay with you.”

Tony doesn’t know if that’s frankness or fiction, but he smiles all the same, patting the slab of stone he’s sat upon invitingly. 

“Well, come aboard, Mr. Parker.”

Without pause, Peter hoists himself on the bench with a single hand, delicately balancing the glass of champagne with the other. He shuffles to get comfortable, swinging his legs as he settles.

When Tony turns in to say something, he wishes he hadn't. Because the firelight catches onto the curve of Peter’s curls, slicked down into wilted tendrils from the sweat dotting his hairline. heart is positively thunderous in his chest. He raises his hand to soothe it and at once, sickeningly, painfully misses the comforting heat of the arc reactor.

“You wanna talk about it?” Peter asks, after a moment.

Tony smiles wryly, mostly to himself. Of course, there’s nothing that escapes Peters notice.

“Trust me, kid. There’s not much to say.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Peter says, fishing something out of his pocket and handing it to Tony “I, uh, thought you liked those. I took the last one.”

It’s a Portugese egg tart, Tony notes, warmed slightly from Peter’s body heat. Fuck. He does like them. They’re his favourite. 

Tony pretends like his heart isn’t swelling to the point where it feels it's going to burst and breaks the tart in two, passing over the other half to Peter. 

“Thanks, kid. Try some.”

They eat their halves in relative silence, save for the sound of chewing and Peter’s shoes hitting the stone as he swings his legs. But the mood grows quieter, noticeably pensive after they finish eating. It makes Tony’s skin crawl.

“You know,” Peter says softly, as if raising his voice would shatter the moment, “you’re not the only one to come back to find years lost. To find the world different. I know it’s not easy. Especially on nights like this.

Tony swallows roughly, chasing it with a mouthful of champagne. 

“You seem to have managed well.”

Peter huffs. “Oh yeah, real well. God, you don’t even _know_ how --” his voice breaks off, voice wet with emotion. He looks away, throat bobbing as he gathers himself. “You just -- you don’t know.”

The moment feels fraught with enough gravity that it would bring the moon down between them.

“Hey,” Tony chides, trying to diffuse the heavy emotion with what levity he could utter. “Come on now, it’s supposed to be me out here maudlin. Don’t steal my thunder. There's only room on this boat for one."

“Sorry,” Peter says, cracking a smile. “I’ll try to pencil in sad hours for later.”

“Appreciated.”

A comfortable silence settles between them. A woman, visibly drunk, passes them and raises her glass to Tony, the liquid sloshing out from the glass and down her arm. She doesn’t seem to notice, smiling and stumbling away.

That would have been Tony ten years ago (in _his_ lived years). On the weekends without Morgan, sometimes it still is.

“Got any resolutions, Mr. Stark?”

Tony snorts. “Shit, kid, I don’t know. Take Morgan to Saturn. Run for president, get back on the Cosmo’s Bachelor of the Year.” 

“Most people just join a gym.”

“I didn’t come back to life to break my hip on a treadmill,” Tony says, offended. “What about you, Peter Rabbit?”

Peter takes a sip of his drink as he visibly deliberates. Wayward drops of champagne gather at the corner of his mouth before he scoops them with his tongue, eyes drifting to the glittering skyline.

“Yeah. I’m trying to get this guy that I’m into to take me seriously.”

Tony hums, stomach dropping.

“Some guy, huh?”

“Yeah. I’ve known him since I was fifteen and I’m like, _super_ into him, but he still sees me as a child.”

His stomach swoops back up. 

“Well,” Tony clears his throat, daring to hope, “this guy’s an idiot if he can’t see you for the man you are. You’re a catch.”

Peter shrugs, inching closer as he adjusts his balance. Their hands are nearly touching and Tony can feel the heat radiating from the man's body and he hates himself for it, just a little bit, he’s _too old_ to feel like a kid with a crush again. 

“He’s not an idiot. Well, he _is_ , sometimes. But not all the time. I'm like that too though, so.”

“You sure this guy is good enough for you?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, looking out at the skyline again. “He’s just lost. I can wait.”

“What if he’s not right for you?” Tony says, throat closing unexpectedly. “What if he’s not worth the wait?”

Peter shuffles closer. 

“He has been so far,” he says, bravely extending his pinkie so it curls atop Tony’s. In the cool night air the touch of skin against skin is scorching. “Worst case scenario has already happened. I’ve already lost him in the worst possible way. I could do without him calling me _kid_ all the time though.”

“He makes no promises on that.”

“I thought as much.”

“You deserve better than lost, Pete,” Tony says around the lump in his throat. For a moment he can’t speak, the memories of electricity ripping through his body in a moment of love much like the feeling he has now. “You deserve the best.”

But Peter doesn’t say anything. He tugs on their linked pinkies to intertwine their fingers, resting them in the interstice of their pressed thighs. Tony doesn’t miss how Peter’s palms are damp against his, how they tremble ever so slightly. It’s grounding, to know Peter is as nervous as he is.

When he gets brave enough to stroke the back of Peters hand with his thumb some of the mired shame melts away.

“Deserve is subjective,” Peter says, squeezing Tony’s fingers. “And I decide he _is_ the best.”

“What if he wants you back,” Tony whispers, shifting closer on the stone until their sides are entirely flush together. “But he has nothing to offer you. Doesn’t fit in with your life.”

“What about what I can offer him?” Peter clutches his hand tighter, raising it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on the back of Tony’s hand. “What if I'm there while he finds his way?”

“Pete.”

“You have time, Mr. Stark. You can figure the rest out as it comes to you.”

“And until then?”

“You go with the flow.”

“How?”

“Like this,” Peter whispers, pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss. 

Closing his eyes, Tony leans into it and lets himself fall. Peters lips feel soft, pillowy, the kiss chaste and unassuming. When Peter pulls back he looks dazed, which is silly, because that was a tease for Tony. 

Eyes on the glistening bow of Peter’s lips, he wants to dive in and tug it between his teeth. So he does.

“That’s -- yeah,” Tony says, sliding their noses together, “Were you -- were you always this confident?” 

“I’m not confident,” Peter replies, kissing him again, pulling back to exhale shakily against Tony’s lips. “Holy cow. That was, like, a super big risk for me. Wow. Did I fool you? Are you fooled?”

“Bamboozled,” Tony says, staring at Peter’s lips again. “Just to confirm, I’m the guy, right? Resolution guy?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Tony says, cupping his cheeks and kissing him again.

Fireworks bathe the couple in an electric array of neons, and crowds can be heard cheering from all around them. Tony pulls away to see Peter illuminated in brilliant colour, lips wet and swollen.

“Is this okay?” Peter reaches his free hand up to cup Tony’s cheek. “Is it weird? It’s a bit weird. Right?”

“It’s weird. But weird-different,” Tony amends. “Good different, right?”

“Right.”

“I should, maybe, keep kissing you to be sure.”

Peter’s answering grin against his lips vivifies the lights exploding around them.

To the soundtrack of waning fireworks, Tony gets lost in learning how Peter kisses, the shape of his lips, how the heat of his tongue feels against his own.

Struck suddenly by a memory Tony pulls away from Peter to groan.

“What?” Peter queries, flushed and panting. “What’s wrong?” 

“I literally paid Morgan a hundred bucks to not tell you I was hot for you.”

“Um, I have enhanced hearing, remember? Do you not remember that?" Peter balks, staring at Tony as if he were stupid. "And she told me, like, two months ago.”

Tony squints. 

“That little _brat_.”

———

The knowing smiles when they walk back into the ballroom from their family is a little uncalled for. Morgan is asleep in Peppers lap so she isn’t even awake to crow about her victory.

But the way Otto splutters as his eyes dart between the bruise on Tony’s neck and their joined hands is _deeply_ worth it.

“Happy New Year, Mr. Octavius!” Peter beams, swinging their hands together. 

“And - and you...Mr. Parker.”

“Sorry to drop this on you last minute, would you mind if I get another ride home?”

“Well, I --”

“Let me compensate you for the cab,” Tony offers, dropping Peter’s hand to wind his arm around the younger man's waist, pulling their sides flush together. “It’s the least I can do. Don’t worry, Peter’s ride will be _very_ enjoyable.”

“I take it you’re not coming back to the penthouse,” Pepper cuts in, sharing a look with Greg.

“Yeah,” Tony nods, already pulling Peter away. “When Morguna wakes up from her beauty sleep tell her she owes me a cut of the winnings, okay? Good. Happy New whatever.”

They stop by the dessert spread on their way out.

\-----

Their taxi driver sends them scalding stares from the front seat.

It’s fine, Tony will compensate him generously in tips. Though, if he were the driver, he’d probably be pissed too. 

For all of his stealthiness as Spider-Man, Peter is _not_ quiet right now. He bucks into Tony’s touch, rubbing his crotch against Tony’s hand. He breaks their kiss to moans lewdly into Tony’s mouth, breath hot against his face.“

Oh god,” he exhales shakily, tugging on Tony’s tie to bring their lips together in a filthy kiss. 

“Good?” Tony mumbles against his lips, grinding his palm down harder. Peter nods, tilting his head back to groan as Tony’s mouth latches onto his neck. The creamy skin is mottled with teeth marks and barely blooming love bites. 

Tony sucks and and laves his tongue over the heated skin to hear how his breath hitches, those high _ahh-ahh’s_ that fall breathlessly out of his mouth, to hear him moan --

“M-Mr. Stark!”

Tony winces, pulling back.

He sighs. “Kid, if we’re doing this, you _really_ gotta call me Tony.”

In an instant Peter’s face turns stony, somehow looking stern despite his swollen lips and wrinkled shirt. He looks like a petulant pitbull.

“If we’re doing this you _really_ gotta stop calling me ‘kid’, _Tony_.”

Tony undoes the first button of Peter’s dress shirt, then the second, parting the folds of fabric to get a view of his collarbones. “I suppose I would be amenable to such amendments, _Peter_ ,” he nods, “on the condition that you let me take you on a date.”

As Tony snakes a hand over the curves of his clavicle, Peter’s deft fingers undo the knot of Tony’s tie until it lies loose from his neck.

“I would be amenable to that. Conditions accepted.”

“Fantastic.”

“Yeah. I’m going to kiss you again now.”

“Okay. Yeah. Good.”

\-----

With a heavy arm slung around his midsection, Tony finds out what Peter’s body feels like curled around his body when he wakes up the next morning.

There are a lot of little discoveries on New Years Day.

Like the feeling of Peter’s morning wood pressed pleasantly against his ass. Or how Peter squints adorably as he wakes up, as if he were confused by his own consciousness, his bedhead a mad nest of curls. Or how much Tony doesn’t mind the humid exchange of morning breath. 

“Do you always take your first dates to bed?” Peter queries over breakfast, the ghost of a teasing smile on his face.

“That was not a date,” Tony points his fork at him. Scrambled egg falls from the utensil onto the table. “And we didn’t even have sex. That’s misleading, mister.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Tony sniffs.

“You’ll find out when we have our first date, won’t you? Friday at seven. Yes or yes?”

Peter sips his coffee to hide his smile, but Tony still sees it.

“Yes.”

\-----

They got their date. And then lots of dates after that. And then Tony did take his date to bed.

And then siix months after the New Years festivities comes Morgans eleventh birthday. 

Tony’s had a lot of dates with a lot of people, including Peter, but nothing quite trumps this. 

It’s a double date. With his ex-wife and her new husband. Plus twelve other kids and their parents at a McDonalds. 

All four are seated at a table, Peter to his side, squirming on the terrible, hard chairs while Pepper and Greg sit opposite. Several servings of burgers and fries lay cold between them. Mostly melted McFlurries ooze off the provided plastic spoon when disinterestedly stirred.

It’s terribly romantic.

Morgan wanted McDonalds with her friends for her birthday, and before the big move to middle school. It fell on date night, but no one is particularly perturbed by this, despite the setting. The garishly decorated diner is alive with the sounds of yelling and laughing, kids and their siblings running after one another, pushing each other down slides and following each other through narrow, plastic tunnels.

Tony’s never really been a double date kinda guy, particularly when it involves the mother of his child and his new, twenty-something lover. It was stilted in the beginning, made more awkward by Tony’s foursome jokes, but Peter keeps the conversation afloat, dipping the congealed fries into Tony’s melted ice cream. 

He rubs Tony’s lower back as he speaks. Soothing, grounding circles that inadvertently keep Tony in the present.

Peter likes being in constant contact, Tony found. Now that he has the permission. Whether its holding hands, a casual grip on Tonys knee, his thigh, his back. 

It’s… actually nice. Maybe because he does it too.

It’s not always about comfort though, Tony concedes, as Peter’s hand dips a little lower, brushing over the swell of his ass.

They share a knowing look. 

Tony knows now, what that odd twinkle in Peter’s eyes mean. That little pervert. He knows it in the way Peter bites his bottom lip, as if canary feathers are about to flutter out of his guilty mouth. He wants to lean over and kiss the look right off them.

Greg keeps a close eye on the playground, loafers tapping anxiously on the tiles when a kid pulls a daring move and nearly misses their landing. 

He’s not the _worst_ , Tony concedes, wearily assessing the other man. He cares for Morgan which is a plus. But he’s greying gracefully and is genuinely so _nice_ and humble that Tony can’t help but test him every now and then. How earnest can he truly be with Tony stealing a fry here and there and knocking his knees ‘accidentally’. 

The conversation turns to Morgans transition to middle school. Pepper thinks she’ll outgrow her peers in months and will pursue a more scientific-focused academic curriculum. 

It’s one of those rare, transient moments of life that Tony’s here to witness. He’s getting used to feeling like everything is going to be okay, like maybe he wasn’t brought back just to be a part of another fight. But there’s a lingering anxiety, he just doesn’t know how to deal with without a solder or a suit to tinker on.

He’s working on it though.

“Should we manhandle her highness back in for the cake?” Tony asks, hand snaking down to squeeze Peter’s firm thigh.

Peter, not missing a beat, sends him a smirk that says _I’ll manhandle you_. 

It’s only right that Tony tightens his grip on Peter’s thigh, smiling proudly to himself when Peters breath hitches.

A kid knocks into the back of Tony’s chair, screaming as they run towards the playground. Tony winces, the moment broken.

“Need I remind you two that we’re in a _family_ establishment,” Pepper stresses.

“Yes,” Tony rolls his eyes, gesturing to the playground of rambunctious, screaming children. “How could I forget.”

“Tony.”

“You heard her, Pete, keep it safe for work. You’re making people uncomfortable,” Tony says, clamping down tighter on Peter's leg. Speaking to the couple, he gestures to Peter with his thumb. “Real horndog this one. Insatiable.”

“ _Me_?” Peter says accusingly, jaw dropping.

Pepper raises an eyebrow cooly. “Please, Tony. Don’t think Morgan hasn’t told me about the time she walked in on you two. One time you told her you were checking each Peters temperature. With your, quote, big, _long_ thermometer -- honestly, Tony. Try not to traumatise our child.”

Peter visibly colours at the mention.

“Wait,” Tony says. “That little -- I paid her twenty bucks not to tell you that.”

“So did I,” Peter frowns. “And I gave her the rest of my Reeses to seal the deal. Ah, crap.”

“You got played,” Greg snickers. Tony hates him again.

He nods at Pepper. 

“She gets that from you.”

Pepper smiles, unbothered, looking every ounce the image of class as she raises her plastic cup of milkshake to them.

Tony sighs, not even mad.

Some things never change.


	5. Finally Legal

**_Prompt: Could you possibly write something with dark Tony and Peter coming of age? Like, Tony does a little dub-con move maybe? Or maybe just a regular “finally legal” story if you’re not into dark Tony?_ **

  
**Warnings: Dub-con, Tony is an actual creep. Peter is seventeen in the beginning.**

**  
—-  
  
**It started with a movie marathon.  
  
Wait - was it though?  
  
The TV was definitely on. But maybe it was an impromptu team meeting. Or maybe one of Steve’s ill-advised attempts of an Avengers book-club session. It was something, one of those.  
  
Tony can’t really remember and it doesn’t really matter. In any case he blames the bourbon he’d been nursing all night and the hypnotic, soft glow of the television for the gaps in his memory.

What he does remember is throwing back glass after glass of liquor, Steve’s voice in monotone lulling him to sleep. He does remember waking up some time after midnight still slouched on the sofa, a sore neck and a warm body pressed against his own. When he blinked the sleep out of his eyes he’d scanned the room to find that everyone else had already gone. Except whoever was sleeping on him.  
  
When he’d looked over he’d expected - well - he actually hadn’t known what to expect but it certainly wasn’t a dozing Peter Parker, face lax where it rested against Tony’s shoulder, small hands clutching Tony’s shirt, legs curled up under him. Tony’s first instinct is to shake the kid awake and direct him towards a bedroom, maybe make a quip at how the kid was drooling on his Burberry.  
  
He doesn’t, though. His hand is already outstretched, but instead of rousing Peter awake it just suspends itself, hanging in mid-air, his body frozen at the feeling of warm exhales against his own neck, the tickle of Peters hair against his skin.  
  
That’s where his hand ends up, finishing its journey by lightly stroking Peter’s messy hair. It’s soft, even despite the gel used to tame his curls.   
  
It’s definitely the bourbon that moves his hand southwards, fingers trailing down Peters’ forehead with feather-light pressure to stroke at one of Peters’ wayward eyebrows. The tiny hairs are always askew. The same hairs are compliant with Tonys gentle ministrations, bending to the force of his fingertips to lay where they should.  
  
Throughout this Peter doesn’t wake. He continues softly snoring.  
  
The TV’s dim, electronic-blue aura against Peters complexion is what finally draws Tony in, the way the glow highlights Peter’s eyelashes, the crest of his cheekbones. Peters skin is soft when Tony moves his finger down the slope of Peters nose. His lips even softer when Tony traces them with as much delicateness as his tired touch can muster.  
  
See, the thing about Peter Parker, what drives Tony to want to protect him, is that he is _soft_. Almost unbearably so. Despite the world throwing punches at him, Peter is soft, compliant and eager to please. This is true even in sleep apparently, if the way he unconsciously purses his lips around Tony’s finger and sighs softly is any indication.  
  
Heat shoots pleasantly down Tony’s gut, mesmerised by the sight. He tests his luck, pressing his finger in just a little deeper, turned on by the way Peter just suckles around the intrusive digit. God. Tony shouldn’t be doing this, but the kid is so fucking perfect and he doesn’t even know it.  
  
If Tony were a responsible person, he would pull away right now, avoid crossing the line he’s been skirting for three years. He doesn’t though, he wants to frame this moment, Peter willing and trusting of Tony even when asleep. Tony wonders just what he could get away with while Peter is like this. What he could get away with if Peter were awake.  
  
In the end there are no crossed lines as Peter stirs, waking slowly. Tony pulls his finger away from his mouth before the kid realizes what his mentor was doing.  
  
Lifting his head, Peter blinks drowsily against the blue light.  
  
“Mr. Stark?” he asks, shuffling away from Tony as he realizes he’s practically been hugging him. He squints in the dark as they adjust and yawns into his hand.  
  
“You fell asleep kid,” Tony says, standing up. “C’mon, let’s get you to a bed before you blow my eardrums with any more snoring,” he quips, reaching to mess up Peter’s hair just to feel it again.  
  
If Tony were a good man he wouldn’t be thinking of inviting Peter to his own bed. Wouldn’t think of coaxing him face-down when he’s drowsy, when he’s too compliant to say no.  
  
The kid follows his lead, placing delicate bare feet on the carpet to stand. His shirt rides up when he stretches, baring the skin of his lower stomach. If Tony were a respectable man then he would look away.  
  
He walks Peter to a spare room, keeping a hand on the boys neck just to keep contact with the still sleep-warm skin.  
  
Never let it be said that Tony is a good, respectable man.  
  
—  
  
Something about that night shifted something in Tony.  
  
He wants the kid - he’s _always_ wanted the kid - but with the whole thing with Pepper he’d never considered going there. Well, not never. Just not keen on getting questioned by the moral police and actual police for fucking a sixteen year old. Things are different now.  
  
Tony spent three long years ignoring the way Peter would blush and fumble around him, would ignore the way Peter would try to impress Tony, would ignore his big eyes, his lips, would pretend that he didn’t see Peter staring at him when he thought Tony wasn’t looking. He’d tried telling himself that it was out of the good of his heart that he didn’t reciprocate - but that didn’t stop him jerking off to fantasies of Peter, imagining that he was coming all over the kids ridiculous eyelashes. When it came down to the truth though, there was just something fucking utterly addictive in casually disregarding him. It was something enticing in the way that Peter would try even harder in the face of Tony’s nonchalance, have his unsure touches linger longer.  
  
Maybe it was that night. Maybe it’s the fact that Peter will be eighteen soon.  
  
Maybe it was the one day Peter came into the lab with a hickey after going to a party the night before and Tony had seen red. Yeah, it was probably that actually.  
  
It made Tony want to monopolize all of Peters time after that, made some animal part of him want to covet all of Peter’s touch and affection. He’s not ashamed of being a selfish man, so that’s exactly what he did.  
  
So Tony would start make excuses for Peter to come to the tower when he passively mentioned dates or hangouts, come up with some kind of bullshit about team strategy or suit maintenance. Peter never looked annoyed to be there, even when he had been pulled from his friends.  
  
It wasn’t enough though.  
  
In the lab he started setting Peter up with impossible tasks. He’d watch with satisfaction as Peter grew more frustrated with things he struggled to correct, all so Tony could crowd close to him, reach over his shoulder and ‘help’ out. It was a slow, rapturous torture to not bend the kid over and take him right there against the desk - but Tony has met May Parker and he’s not interested in going to jail. And maybe it has something to do with the way Peter would go bright red and drop his tools, would take not-so-subtle sniffs at Tony’s cologne.  
  
Maybe Tony starts dropping some of his own touches after a couple of weeks. At first they’re seemingly innocent - touching Peter’s shoulder or hips as he manoeuvres around him, wiping grease on Peters cheek to tease him.  
  
On one memorable occasion Peter is bent over a work desk toying with something, the band of his red underwear peeking over the top of his ill-fitting jeans. Tony had walked over and couldn’t help but snap the band against Peters skin to hear him yelp, making some off quip about Peter letting Tony know when he’s ready to go shopping for Calvin Klein. His fingertip had grazed the top of Peters ass, it was worth it.  
  
All the attention gets Peter visibly worked up, reduced to flustered stammers whenever Tony touches him. More than once the kid dashes off to go suddenly use the bathroom, declaring an urgent need to pee. It’s fucking adorable.  
  
Tony starts commenting on Peters body, sliding in remarks about Peter working out, how US Weekly had voted Spider-Mans ass the most delectable of all the Avengers, jokingly asking if he should reinforce the spider-suit in that region for extra support.  
  
No more hickeys turn up, Peter comes whenever he calls, eager as always. It should be enough.  
  
It’s not.  
  
The day after Peter turns eighteen Tony picks him up and takes him out to dinner to celebrate, impressed with his own patience to wait this fucking long. He makes sure Peter knows just who takes care of him, spoiling him lavishly with gifts, food, a personalized message from the New York Mets team, a VIP pass to the games at Citi-Field.  
  
Peter, of course, tries to say he can’t accept it all, despite being noticeably pleased and happy. Tony shuts him down though with a warning that he would be very disappointed, hurt even, if his gifts were rejected, even out of nobility. It makes Peter bite his bottom lip and his cheeks glow that delicious shade of pink so it’s a win on all accounts.  
  
Throughout the dinner Peter talks animatedly about school, his projects, the party his friends threw for his birthday the previous night. Tony tries to listen, replies accordingly with acknowledging hums, but honestly he can’t stop thinking about getting Peter under the table, can’t stop envisioning the boy on his knees between Tony’s legs, hard cock between those soft lips, big doe eyes staring up at him in that same devoted way he always does.  
  
“That waiter over there keeps staring at us,” Peter says about halfway through dinner, looking furtively over the other side of the restaurant. “It’s kinda weird.”  
  
Tony had noticed that already. He smirks into his glass of chardonnay, downing it before speaking.“It’s because he’s wondering what a young thing like you is doing with an old man like me.”  
  
Peter rolls his eyes, smiling fondly. “You’re not old, Mr. Stark. You’re still, y’know, spry.”  
  
Tony snorts. “Spry, wow. Do me a favour, kid, and never call me that again. Spry?”  
  
“Yeah, y’know. Sprightly.”  
  
“This is coming from an infant.”  
  
“I’m not that young, Mr. Stark.”  
  
Tony’s eyes lock onto Peters. “I know.”  
  
The air around them is silent and tense, clogged with anticipation and unspoken words. He thinks Peter is going to say something, sees the kid lick his lips unconsciously, his mouth opening but not moving. A million and one scenarios run through Tony’s mind, thinks about suggesting that they go back to the tower, thinks about showing the entire fucking restaurant that only _he_ makes Peter this speechless, this brilliant fucking kid, thinks of leading him out of the establishment with an arm around his waist and Tony’s tongue in his mouth.   
  
The moment is abruptly broken when a patron walking past bumps into their table, rocking it so harshly that Peters glass tips over, pouring water straight into his lap.  
  
“Crap!” Peter curses, pushing his chair away to wipe at his pants. “Damn, shoulda kept the fancy napkin-thing there.”  
  
Tony frowns at the patron who is now apologizing profusely to Peter, offering to go grab some towels, drawing the attention of half the restaurant guests and the staff. Peter seems to notice this too.  
  
“It’s fine, miss! Really, don’t worry about it, it’s just water.”  
  
“Are you sure? I’ll pay for dry cleaning.”  
  
Peter waves her off, “I promise it’s okay, accidents happen! I’m going to just go dry it off,” he says, standing and gesturing towards the bathroom. He smiles sheepishly at Tony as if to say _can you believe my luck_ , the water darkening the crotch of Peters’ pale jeans.  
  
_Luck indeed_ , Tony thinks, watching the kid shuffle awkwardly to the mens restroom.  
  
A waiter belatedly rushes over moments later with a wad of disposable napkins which Tony distractedly takes, then stands to make his own way to the mens bathroom. There’s a few interceptions by gushing fans and apologetic staff but eventually he makes it to the mens, door swinging open with a satisfying squeak.  
  
Upon entrance the restroom seems blissfully free of any occupants, except Peter who is in an open cubicle patting away at his pants with crumpled toilet paper.  
  
“Oh hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says when he notices the man standing there, still wiping away. “I uh, didn’t realize they had those fancy dryers that you stick your hands in, I mean I’m pretty sure they spread more germs than they save - but anyway, just my luck, right? I hope that poor woman didn’t feel too bad - “  
  
The rest of his words are cut off when Tony silently enters the cubicle and locks the door behind him. The space is small and it’s a tight fit especially with two grown men inside it.  
  
It feels even smaller when Tony kneels down before Peter and starts pressing some of the disposable napkins against Peter’s groin.  
  
There’s a choked off noise from above him.  
  
“M-Mr. Stark…?”  
  
Tony tuts, shaking his head with disapproval and pressing the napkins harder around Peters’ crotch, along his upper thighs. “Look at you. Always making a mess, Parker.”  
  
Peter seems to be frozen, his hands in fists by his side, barely audible gasps escaping his mouth as Tony keeps pressing against his groin in circular motions, rubbing at the area with intent.  
  
Peter whimpers but Tony continues, even when Peters’ cock visibly plumps beneath his hands. It shouldn’t, but it thrills Tony to see, hear, feel the kid-not-a-kid slowly becoming undone under his ministrations. The twitch of Peters fingers as if they want to reach out and touch Tony make him want to bury his face in the kids crotch, suck on the hair leading down from his happy trail to what he feels the kid is packing.  
  
After all the napkins are sufficiently damp and crumpled Tony stands, taking stock of Peters expression, his eyes hazy, mouth hanging open. God, he wants to use that mouth.  
  
“What’s wrong, kid?” Tony asks, throwing the napkins in the toilet. He adopts a look of faux concern, reaching a hand up to grip Peters jaw tightly. “You’re looking a little flushed, everything okay?”  
  
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark. I didn’t mean to - but you were -”  
  
“What are you sorry for?”  
  
Peter blushes, looking down and gesturing vaguely at his noticeably hard cock.  
  
_“_ Oh you mean _this_?” Tony asks, removing his grip on Peters chin to place his hand firmly on the boys erection, the fabric under his hands still a little wet. They’ll be wet with something else soon if Tony has anything to do with it.  
  
Peters head tips back, his breaths coming out heavy. “I - fuck. Oh my god.”  
  
“Oh, sweetheart. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly natural.”  
  
Peter nods, face pink, eyes anywhere but on Tony’s face. That just won’t do.  
  
“Eyes on me, doll.”  
  
Peter, the sweet thing that he is, complies immediately, snapping his heated gaze to Tony’s.  
  
“Good. I’m going to help you with this, alright? Just like this, see? No big deal.”  
  
There’s an effort to keep quiet, but inevitably Peter can’t help but moan softly as Tony continues to rub him through his jeans. He knows the kid is on a trigger-hair, that his senses must be on overload, must be cataloging every single second of this.  
  
Peter stumbles forward a little until they are almost completely pressed against one another, burying his face in Tony’s neck to muffle his whimpers. Peter mouths at Tonys exposed skin, bringing his arms around him as the man unzips his fly and reaches inside his jeans to stroke his cock.  
  
If Tony were a good man he wouldn’t be here right now. Would have waited at the table for Peter to return. Instead he presses a hungry kiss to the side of Peter’s face, increasing his strokes with a dry roughness that seems to turn Peter on even more.  
  
Tony presses another kiss in Peters hair when he finally comes moments later with a strangled cry, shaking like a leaf and panting.  
  
“Shh, shh. There you go, all better now,” Tony says when Peter pulls his face back, cheeks mottled pink, dots of perspiration on his forehead, looking so perfectly debauched. Tony can’t wait to fucking wreck him.  
  
“Now, what do you say to someone who helps get you off?”  
  
Peter blinks, staring at Tony with an adorably heated expression as the man casually wipes his come off with toilet paper. “T-Thank you.”  
  
“Thank you…?”  
  
“Thank you, sir. Tony.”  
  
“You’re very welcome, sweetheart. What do you think - want to go back to the tower and continue celebrating your birthday, hmm? Maybe you can thank me there.”  
  
Peter finally smiles.  
  
“I'd really like that.”


End file.
